Rewritten
by Fallen Dragonfly
Summary: Second chances don't come easy. But perhaps, even at this cost, it was worth it. -Time travel fic.
1. Prelude: The dead gate

This is a story that's been in my mind for more than a year now. The first chapter has been re-written more than once, and I think I'm happiest with this one. This is also what would come once Gedwey Awlei was finished. It's compliant to Brisingr... and it'll be compliant to a point to the last in the series, whatever it is named. Maybe I'll write more on this, the next chapter or two surely, but I'll wait on the response of people I think. The first chapter is unfortunately short, a bit of a teaser, but also very important, as you'll begin to understand as the story goes on. I most heavily encourage re-reading of this chapter, and thinking about what it all could mean. There are enough hints there to get the full picture.

Update note: Not many people seem to like the first chapter. I fully understand. Until I get around to changing it, I encourage you to make your way through, or maybe even come back to it later. I'm told it starts slow, but hits its stride quickly enough. Up to you, but I encourage you to give it a run through.

Anyway, this is, most formerly, a time travel story. A chance to redo things that may or may not have worked out so well last time. I also note, this is a story of hard choices. Don't count on there always being good options... With that in mind, there are occasionally some good ones too. I'm writing this, first and foremost, to explore a few things I never felt Paolini did justice.

I would also appreciate feedback, and more so after the first few chapters. With all that in mind, no more digressing, and let us begin.

* * *

><p>"So this is what it came to, in the end…"<p>

There is no answer.

Part of him expected there to be.

For not the first time, he wonders if he is insane.

Making slow steps into the darkness.

Bordering on edge.

Or over and gone, lost to the mists of the ether.

Perhaps...

For a moment, he pauses to think about it. It nags at his thoughts. Stabs at them.

Then, he turns and squashes the feeling. For it is not part of him.

Everything goes silent again.

But he still thinks for a moment, curious of it. Curiosity is perhaps the only thing that has kept him sane, if this is sanity. Curiosity for an answer, that led him to this point.

He stops, and looks forward. A line is broken, if only just. Automatically, he mutters a word, and dust flies, glinting in the moonlight. It makes trails in the air, almost of its own violation. He then pauses again, as the dust reinforces the lines once more, and checks that his spell is still in place.

He feels the tiniest trickle of loss. It is almost not enough. But still, he can feel no wind, even though he can see the a plume of dust shifting in the distance.

Good... He knows, nothing must disturb this.

Another thought calls out, crying in sorrow. He crushes it yet again, and almost laughs at its absurdity.

Never would he have expected them to be defeated like this. Already though, he can feel it spreading through the webway, emotions passing through the gilded lines.

Loss.

Some, many, give up. Others push onwards, heedless against the futility of it.

A thousand souls, so many emotions.

And again, Eragon wonders is he is insane.

What defines insanity? Knowing what you are doing is wrong, but feeling no remorse?

Or is it feeling remorse, but not caring.

Not stopping.

Not ending this blasphemy before it can begin.

...Perhaps he is.

Eragon mutters another word, and a thousand more gleaming shards slip into place.

Instantly, the area lights up. Glowing. Writhing with light.

A thousand souls show their light.

Eragon's hand brushes the ground, and he feels _power._

It's more then he could have imagined. More than he could have imagined of imagining.

It probably isn't enough.

Though then again, perhaps nothing is. Perhaps it can't be done. Who'd ever heard of something like this?

Some dream of chances, and second chances, but none like this.

The thoughts, the doubts of all those within, and his own.

Eragon doesn't crush them this time.

Perhaps he wants to be doubtful.

No, there is no uncertainty.

He wants to be doubtful.

He wants to fear it.

Eragon shivers, and knows he has found success.

Energy gathers. He doesn't speak the words yet. He must wait till the time is right. Until the fears are strongest.

After all, he didn't carve his way to hell just be stopped at the door.

A moment passes, and Eragon takes one last look around.

He sees the stars.

The moon.

The midnight sky.

Mountains in the far distance, giving him an imaginary horizon.

Grasslands to the far north. He's almost surprised. He can still make out splinters of green.

Eragon wonders if a human would see a fraction of what he sees. Those days are too far gone now. It's only been a few years... but it feels so much longer. Like every year was a lifetime, stretched on and on till he could no longer see the ends.

Ironically, that moment would be further away for him than anyone else.

Well, nearly everybody.

His gaze drops, this time in sorrow.

It quickly turns to anger.

It would have, by itself, if given a few seconds longer, but this is a reminder too strong to ignore.

Scorched ground, blasted earth, a single crater, all these rolled into one and one definition. The end of it all.

It's ironic that he would come here to end it all once again.

Despite the doubts in his thoughts, Eragon's will had never been stronger. Suddenly, like drops of water against a tidal surge, he forced back the traitorous thoughts and smashes his own against them.

The cower.

They fear.

All of a sudden, the web of lines suddenly burns so brightly it almost blinds him. The souls cry out in desperation, and last hope spread amongst them.

The air crackles visibly, but Eragon stands motionless at the middle of it all. He can feel it all. It blots out his vision, his senses, almost eclipsing his mind. Perhaps, it is enough to even destroy the world.

Or instead, enough to remake it.

The sky comes alight with flames that don't burn. The earth cracks nearby, splintering a million different ways. An entire plateau changes to dust. And yet, at the middle of it, an island of peace rests, its borders protected by great beams of light.

And Eragon speaks.

Words of power too ancient to have been spoken in this lifetime echo in the stillness. Some words, never spoken ever before. It daunts him, but he continues on. The incantation is almost automatic. He spent so long thinking of this moment that suddenly it can't come fast enough.

And then, it's all over. Power rushes from him so fast he nearly dies five times in the first second.

The next second, it's past twenty.

For not the last time, he doubts himself.

He doubts his hopes, his sanity.

But still, he knows.

He paved this road, he will see it through to the end.

His hopes are worth this.

A second chance is worth damning himself.

Suddenly, true exhaustion hits. He has no energy to sustain anything anymore, and his world cracks.

Stars shimmer then vanish, the moon blurs across the sky,

Everything burns.


	2. Memoriato

Everything was dark. Everything. Eragon stared into the distance, and instead of finding it dark, he found it merely empty. He stared into the void. One mile, one thousand, one million? More? He wasn't sure.

His lungs began to ache, then scream. But he could not draw breath. There was nothing to draw upon. He felt his body being pulled from all directions with increasing force, threatening to tear him apart.

Then, just as the pain became near unbearable, a light flashed in the distance. Then another, then another. The stars multiplied across the expanse, glowing brighter and brighter until a sudden haze dulled them, and Eragon found him staring into a familiar sky.

And still, he could not breathe.

With a sound like thunder, he felt something spring into existence beneath his feet. It spread, further and further, shaping into dark mountains, lit only barely by a crescent moon. Eragon felt the tickle of grass beneath his feet, and then it spread too, a light coating on across the barren world. Trees sprang into existence, then animals to feed from them, and Eragon felt the pulse of life cover his awareness.

Then, he lurched forward, and his lungs heaved. Nothing. Again, and a achingly painful wisp of air was pulled into him. Eragon coughed and heaved once more, and his chest was ripped with what felt like flame as his lungs finally filled.

His world span before him, and mercifully, he passed out.

* * *

><p>When awareness came, it was all too sudden. Eragon sprang into waking, literally. He crouched, one leg knelt against the ground, as he took in his surroundings.<p>

The ground was blackened and burnt, cracked like a desert, but shaped in an all too familiar array. It extended for a hundred feet in each direction, finally reaching a ring of burnt trees. Forest and mountain loomed beyond, and Eragon recognised the familiar peaks of the Spine.

That was good at least. He knew where he was. However, _when _was he?

Eragon coughed. His lips were cracked and dry. He could feel something pressing solidly against his back. Eragon turned, and the pressure went with him. Reaching around, he managed to extract a bow. Eragon's eyebrows furrowed. It looked familiar. But how he could not remember why. It was old and worn, but it showed signs of being delicately cared for. Still, it was not a weapon Eragon would have used. It looked far too fragile for his strength. He pulled on the string carefully, and was surprised at its resistance. Maybe not so weak after all. Any normal bow would shatter under his elven strength...

Eragon cursed, then pressed his hands to his ears. That was the issue then, he didn't have that strength anymore. His hands bore far too many calluses, his body felt too heavy. That meant... that the bow was his? The one Garrow had made for him three lifetimes ago. He was back in his weak human body. That was unexpected, had he done something wrong with the spell? He had no way of knowing, after all, he had done something impossible. He had reversed time, something without precedent. There could be any number of side effects.

At least the body was his though, he'd half expected to end up as a spirit in the ether. Having a body at all was lucky enough, and at least if he looked in the mirror he'd not find a stranger, merely a forgotten friend.

Still, when was he? The Spine... a hunting trip? He remembered those, back when they had struggled for food each winter. Eragon looked at his hands... trying for a moment to judge his age. It wasn't helpful. Angling his gaze upward, he took in the position of the sun against the mountains. Late autumn perhaps? Winter was approaching. A chill wind came by, confirming his suspicions.

Then, Eragon felt a sudden spike of energy, and he dived out of the way as a flames burst into existence above his head. The area was blanketed in heat, and Eragon let out a yelp as he protected his face with his arms and felt them burn.

And then, just as suddenly, the flames were gone, except for a slight smouldering in the cracks in the earth. Before Eragon, resting in a bed of ash, was a perfect oval.

A blue egg.


	3. Fathers

Apparently the formula to get me writing involves 2am, me not feeling tired, and Linkin Park via headphones.

Hopefully that's not the only one, or I'll never get any more done. Or perhaps I will, I've discovered I really like late night (or early, EARLY morning) computer haunts.

Anyway, before I digress further, enjoy my second chapter in eight hours!

Ps. Cause I'm a cliffhanger whore.

Pss. Thanks to DragonKnight and ShadowWolf for inadverdantly (or not) inspiring me to do as described above.

* * *

><p>Eragon could only stare blankly, but inside, his mind was racing.<p>

This was a coincidence. An unbelievable coincidence. He had arrived merely hours before the egg's arrival. He could remember clearer now, he had been through this place, hunting a doe. The herd had been feeding in the area for the last day, but they had kept on the move. And yet, he ended up in his own body, in just the right place, and was then unconscious until moment before it arrived.

There were too many chances there. Too many 'what if' moments. Eragon felt a chill run down his spine. Time, it seemed, did not leave things to chance. Destiny could be changed, that much had been proven, but to what extent? The one time it had been, another life had been taken in its stead. What if altering fate was only that, an exchange?

The idea threatened to drive him mad.

Eragon clenched his teeth. No, he would not let things remain the same. He knew what would... no, could be better than any possibly could.

Besides, his mind was whole for the first time in two years. He would not let it be fractured again. He wondered for a fraction of a moment if he would be able to feel where Saphira had dwelled, but he cut the thought off. He did not want to know. He really, truly, didn't.

After two years, the silence in his head was a blessing.

A bird chirped in the distance, and sound began to return to the forest as animals left their hiding places.

Eragon took a deep breath, and tried to relax. It was coincidence. Merely that. An unconscious push from his mind, urging him here. What better place to start again?

Reasoning gave him focus.

His vision slowly lowered to the egg before him. It was smooth... beautiful. A sphere of sky blue against the ash. It hinted at the marvel that could be. Could be...

Almost unconsciously, Eragon reached out to touch it. But then he stopped, and he jerked back.

A silent tear ran down his face. He wiped it away, and then he clenched, clearing his features.

Pausing, Eragon collected his hunting bag. A browned pack, stained with the juices from previous hunts. Careful not to touch the egg, he wrapped it in the bag and slung it over his back. He checked his supplies, and found a little over a day's food. It was possible that he might find something to make do on the road, but if he remembered well enough (the old memories were flowing easier than expected), the deer he had been tracking would be beyond that now. It would take him too long to find the tracks, especially considering the blasted earth, and winter was approaching fast.

Besides, as he weighed the light burden resting over his shoulder, he would like very much to get the egg to safety.

Sloan (he cursed the name), had been right about some things. The spine was not a safe place to be. Eragon had seen too much evil in those shadowed peaks.

* * *

><p>Following his own trail out of the mountain had been surprisingly easy. His subconscious remembered the steps, even down to when to lift his legs to avoid rocks on the side of the road to Carvahall, even if his memory did not.<p>

Passing through the village had been an unwelcome trip down memory lane. He had been personal witness to many of their deaths. He saw Horst through the window of his shop, and he thought that the worst, but as he stepped past the last house and noted the familiar back trail to Garrow's house, he realised the worst was yet to come.

He found he didn't remember it as well as he thought. The shingled roof, the whitewashed walls, the brick chimney, they weren't all familiar. Part of his mind tried to replace the image with a more recent memory, that of a burnt out husk, but he shook his head and the picture faded.

It took Eragon a moment to realise he'd stopped moving, and he forced himself forward. He came up to the door and turned the handle, but it did not shift. The light by the window shifted, and a voice rasped from within. "Who's there?"

It took him several moments to find his voice. "...It's Eragon. Can you let me in?"

A shutter on the door opened, and Eragon got a quick view of brown eyes, lined and tired, before the door swung open. Eragon felt a slight wave of warmth, and he realised how cold he was. He went to sit by the fire, which flickered weakly with the draft, and did not turn.

"You worried me for a moment there. How did you manage to forget that I bar the door past sundown?"

Eragon took a deep breath before replying. "I don't know... tired, I guess."

The man grunted, and pulled out a chair to sit down. "That bag doesn't look quite full enough for a deer. Not even full enough for a rabbit or two. Still, if you're that exhausted, you really should put it down."

Eragon started, and turned. For a moment he met Garrow's grizzled face, and he looked back just as quickly. He hadn't realised he was still wearing the pack. He'd tightened the straps as far as they could go, and they were digging into his shoulders. And yet, he was clinging to them like a rope dangling off a cliff. With a shuddering breath, Eragon forced himself to relax and he let the pack drop the half foot to the floor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly, though not uncomfortably. "Something wrong lad?"

Eragon had never been an excellent liar, but even he knew that not answering for half a minute was a poor idea. "No..."

The hand tightened, then pulled away. "It would help you to talk, but I won't force it. Shall we talk of the hunt then? Or is that involved?"

"...It went poorly."

"So I see..." Eragon turned, and saw Garrow looking into the bag. "But what's this though?" His eyes narrowed. "Where did you get it?"

"...Tripped over it while hunting. The sound scared away the doe I'd followed."

Garrow looked at him again, but apparently found no deceit in the half truth. "Wonder if it'd sell. Must be worth something is someone went to the effort to shape it."

Eragon flinched again, though he managed to hide it this time. "Maybe. We'd have to ask the traders, when they come. Only he and Horst have the money to spend on ...trinkets... I thought of selling it to Sloan, but I doubt he'd want to have anything to do with something that came from the spine. And Horst isn't that kind of man."

Garrow's brow furrowed. "Where did you hear that?"

Eragon slowly looked back at the fire. "Overheard Morn talking about it on the way back, by chance. I stopped by the tavern for a moment to warm up, and he was complaining about Sloan's attitude."

"So it's getting cold then."

"It froze each night."

"We best finish the harvest tomorrow then." He grunted and stood, then knelt by the fire for a moment to put out the last few wisps. "It's a right shame. Sloan used to be a much better man. ...Much happier, too." He turned, and then paused. Reaching out, he wiped the tears from Eragon's face.

"It really will help if you talk about it." He stood and left the room, seeking his bed.

The tiny flicker of light from the coals was the only thing that kept the room from plunging into blackness, and Eragon stared into them relentlessly. _Home. _His instincts told him. It was. But it wasn't. Couldn't be. It had burnt down. It was back now, but he had left it behind. It wasn't the same. He wasn't the same.

Finally, he turned, and saw that Garrow had left the egg on the table. After several long moments, Eragon wrapped the pack around it, and then carried it to his room.

In the morning... everything would be okay in the morning.

* * *

><p>He woke up slowly, though early. The sun shining through his window was too bright. Not what he was used to. He could hear Garrow shuffling in the hall, ever the early riser. Eragon stood, and dressed quickly. He was vaguely aware of the egg, underneath his bed, out of sight.<p>

_Out of mind._

Garrow looked up but said nothing as Eragon joined him for breakfast. Roran wandered in halfway through the meal, and Eragon met his eyes for just a moment before looking down.

Roran looked over to Garrow, who replied with a creased brow and a slight shrug.

...The day's work was long, and gruelling enough that his thoughts were few. The days that followed were no different, and he was thankful. He quickly readjusted to his weaker body, though more than once he strained himself lifting something he didn't have the strength for. Each night he slept above the egg, and it nagged his dreams. He slept little, and he was too eager to get out of the house and into the barn each morning. Soon enough, he had finished breakfast and begun work before Garrow or Roran even woke.

* * *

><p>The barn door swung open noisily, and Eragon had considered suggesting buying some oil for the hinges. He had squashed the thought quickly. It would be a waste of money, something they had little of. He was all too aware of that their food was short, and they would be selling much of what they had harvested to pay for other supplies. They needed a new axe for firewood, and both the horses; Birka and Brugh, needed to be reshoed. Garrow had begun rationing their supplies, calculating how much they would need to make it through the winter and far enough into the spring that the trees would start producing fruit. Eragon would be essential for early spring, with a hope to catch the herds made slow by pregnancy.<p>

Brugh whinnied, and Eragon moved over to calm him. He wished for a moment that he could do so with his mind, it would have been simpler, but ever since his return the talent had escaped him. Though he could admit to himself, he had barely tried.

There was a creak at the barn door, and Eragon looked up just in time to see Garrow enter. He looked thinner than ever, and as the door swung shut he absently tightened his belt. Garrow did that a lot these days.

A moment later, Eragon realised he'd been staring, and Garrow had been staring back. But the man soon walked over to collect from the chickens, and said nothing.

* * *

><p>... For the last week, the days were finished in almost total silence, Eragon rarely made an attempt to talk when prompted, instead replying with gestures. Garrow had not pushed it, but his expression was often strained. Roran too had picked up on the mood, but said nothing. If they spoke behind closed doors, Eragon didn't know of it.<p>

Talking became easier the week that followed, if only out of stress. The day that the traders visited came quickly, silencing Garrow and Roran's worries. Eragon had been confident in their arrival, and had said so, for he in reality knew so, and it had reduced the weight in their features.

As the morning broke, Eragon retrieved his pack and shifted his bed to expose the egg. It had accumulated a fine film of dust, and he blew lightly to clear it. A beam of sunlight came through the window, and suddenly the room was painted with splashes of sapphire blue.

Eragon paused, and then put the bag over the egg, opening first. He then tightened it and flipped it right way up before strapping it to his back. The lights flickered out just as quickly.

Roran and Garrow arrived in the kitchen soon after, wearing patchy furs to hold what warmth they could and their hands full of old trinkets and spare items that might sell. They were packed in separate bag, and Roran hefted it over his back with a look of annoyance.

Outside, Garrow prepared the wagon, and they soon joined him. Roran was eager to relieve his burden, though the look of annoyance never faded. Eragon didn't remove his pack. He got a strange look for it, but nothing was said.

The trip into town was cold, and thankfully short. The trader's trails had broken the snowdrifts, and they moved faster for it. Carvahall was in a greater bustle than he ever recalled, at least half the town braving the cold at any given moment to visit the trader's tents.

With a promise from Garrow to make it to Horst's in time for dinner, Roran vanished. Eragon hung back while Garrow conversed with a trader he remembered to be named Merlock. With a gesture from Garrow, he soon found himself in the man's tent. Slowly, Eragon pulled the pack from his back, and then opened. After a gesture, Garrow retrieved the egg and placed it on the table.

Just like before, a flicker of sunlight came through the tent, illuminating the room with small dots of blue. Eragon lowered his eyes.

Merlock let out a low whistle. He reached for it, and paused. "May I?" After a gesture from Garrow, the man put it on his lap. After retrieving a set of copper scales, he weighed it. He then examined it with a jeweler's glass, and then Eragon had to stop himself from flinching as tapped it with a little mallet. He didn't succeed when the man then drew a line over it with the point of a diamond. Eragon clenched his fists, and forced himself to relax. By the time he managed it Merlock had put the egg back on the table and was conversing with Garrow about some details he hadn't paid attention to.

His stepfather was currently staring at the tent ceiling, an uncertain look on his face. "Will you buy it?"

The trader looked thoughtful for a moment, but then shook his head. "It's not worth the risk. I might be able to find a wealthy buyer during my spring travels, but I can't be certain. Even if I did, you wouldn't be paid until I returned next year. No, you will have to find someone else to trade with."

Garrow sighed and shook his head, a sour look gracing his features. "For half price perhaps? We have no use for it here, and I can hardly go elsewhere to sell it."

Eragon gasped, and his fists clenched tighter. _No! He couldn't! _Looking at the Merlock's face, the man looked sorely tempted. Eragon reached out and drew the egg into his lap. Garrow gave him a look, and Eragon pretended to be weighing it in his hands.

Finally, gratefully, the trader shook his head once more. "No, I can't afford the risk. This past season has been hard on all of us." And with that, he stood and gestured to the entrance with a bow a slight frown.

The rest of the day passed without incident, Eragon choosing to stay with the wagon, his interest in the trader's stalls conspicuously absent.

Night fell, and Eragon once again ensured the egg was well buried underneath the wagon's contents before going to Horst's. Dinner was a hearty affair, and it raised both his and Garrow's flagging spirits. Afterward, he joined the rest of the village by the trader's tents to watch the performers. As he watched, he noted that none of them had the even half the flexibility seen in the average elf, and it brought a slight smirk to his face.

Hours later, when the candles surrounding the clearing were each burnt down to a tiny pyramid of wax, Brom stepped forward.

_Brom._

Eragon cursed silently. He had completely forgotten about him. In the day and a half returning to Carvahall, Eragon had tried his best to prepare himself for what he would see there. Many friends, family, that were dead and now would not be. However, Brom had not been part of it. He thought about it, and reasoned that he had not connected the great man, the dragon rider he had known to the humble storyteller in a long time.

And certainly, he had no connected the town to the man that was his father.

Eragon felt a gaze on him, and he looked up just in time to catch Brom's eyes. They were dark brown, like his, and held a bright spark that flickered as their gazes met. Subconsciously, he checked the shields surrounding his mind, but there was no need. His father's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, then passed on as he began his tale.

The story was one Eragon had memorised all too well now, though there were adjustments. Things Brom chose not to reveal. Perhaps he was imagining it, or perhaps because only now did he have reason notice it, but Brom's eyes constantly went to him as he told his tale. Each time, Eragon met his gaze unflinchingly, and he wondered if, perhaps, the pain he felt looking upon the man was visible.

Half way through the tale, Brom paused to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. His eyes were red, the lines under them heavy with age.

* * *

><p>Eragon quickened their return once the story was over. Garrow seemed annoyed, but Roran, unable to converse with Katrina in the open, took it in stride. Once inside his room, Eragon shifted his bed to place the egg, but then paused, and instead used his pack to place it within sight, up upon his shelf.<p>

In the moonlight, he stared at it until sleep took him.

* * *

><p>The days that followed were bland in comparison. Winter still held strong, leaving little to do but feed the animals. Eragon chose to spend his free time in his room, preferring the furs to the inadequate heat of the stove. They had run low on wood, and it was, ironically, too cold out to get more. He occupied his time exercising, after finding out his body was too inflexible for even the most basic forms of the rigmar, and by sitting on his bed, staring at the egg, comforted by its presence, and <em>thinking.<em>

Sixteen days after trader's visit to Carvahall the cold finally broke, and so when Garrow requested that Eragon spend the day collecting wood, he was so eager to get out that he was happy to agree.

Chopping the tree down didn't take long, but separating it into usable pieces did. It was well past lunch when he finished chopping, and despite the cold he was sweating and wishing he had brought food along. Rubbing his back to ease the pain in his muscles, Eragon began the trip back. He would need the cart to transport it all.

There was a set of footprints in the snow leading away from the house when Eragon returned, leading off to Carvahall. Roran was sitting by the fireplace when Eragon entered, and he made cheerful conversation while Eragon prepared a meal of chicken and bread.

After he finished, Eragon stretched, ready to go back to work. He took a moment to visit his room to replace his tunic, which was now drenched in cold sweat, when he found that his door was open. He looked into the room, and then he saw something that made his blood freeze.

The egg was gone.


	4. Pursuit

When Brom had gotten a letter, personally delivered, a burst of excitement ran through him. Then, he realised that if this was pertaining to the dragon egg, Oromis or Arya, or maybe even Islanzadi would have contacted him directly by reaching out with their minds to touch his. Difficult, but within their capabilities, and so he then felt worry instead. Upon reading the letter however, it all got infinitely worse.

_The precious cargo is missing. The carrier is also missing, presumed dead. The guards were found slain. ~A_

There were no instructions. But it didn't matter. He packed quickly, though lightly, choosing only essential items. His sword. Zar'roc was also packed, though he hoped he would not have to use it. Money, which he packed into five separate locations. A thick pile of maps in a waterproof case.

He was almost finished when there was a knock on the door.

* * *

><p>When asked later, Roran would have said that Eragon ran from the house like he was being chased by the hounds of hell. Eragon thought he might have been faster than that.<p>

He was three miles down the road when his body stopped working, and he almost fell to his knees just to regain his breath. Slowly, Eragon managed to get moving again, though not more than a fast walk. Two miles later, he saw Garrow coming in the opposite direction. As he got closer, the man saw him too, and a shocked and horrified expression came across his face.

Eragon shouted. "Where is it! Where did you put it!"

"Gone!" Garrow replied. "Gone and with someone who will ensure you never see it again! I shall not see you ruin yourself over a sorcerer's stone, Eragon!"

Eragon let out a howl. "Who! Please, tell me who!"

The man shook his head bitterly. "I will not. You mean more to me than that."

A sharp pain broke through Eragon's chest, and he fell to his knees. _No! I can't lose it! I have to keep it safe! I have to!_

A hand touched his shoulder, but he did not feel it. He could only stare downward. Garrow's feet filled his vision, as did his footprints, trailing off in the snow.

_...Trailing off..._

Suddenly, Eragon was on his feet again, dodging around Garrow and sprinting towards Carvahall.

"Come back! Don't do this!" Garrow tried to follow, but he was older than Eragon by a great many years, as well as cold and tired from the trip. He could not even begin to keep up.

_...I'm sorry, but I can't._

* * *

><p>Even for a mediocre tracker, following footsteps in snow was easy. Eragon had only ever been good at it, and then constantly improved. Once in Carvahall however, footsteps layered over and over and the snow beaten into a shiny sheet of ice by constant passage. He was quite the sight, trudging across town slowly, staring at his feet, but none stopped him. The footsteps stopped at Brom's door, then went backwards. Another set of footsteps led up to the door, and the two led away. Eragon knocked on the door forcefully, but there was no reply. He looked around the house, and managed to find a window that was not properly secured. It wasn't enough to get in with, the window was <em>tiny, <em>but he could see in well enough, or at least enough to see that someone had been through with great hurry, likely packing. The spot Eragon knew to hold Brom's sword was empty, and the cinders in the fireplace had been stamped out.

Eragon let out a low moan. Garrow, knowing Brom's fondness for trinkets and curious items, had taken it to him to ensure its removal. He would have thought that there was no way Brom could refuse such a heartfelt request. Likely, his only condition would be that Brom keep it from Eragon.

But Brom, upon seeing it, would have known EXACTLY what the _stone_ was. And his first thought would be to keep it safe.

Brom had left Carvahall. The only question was, to go where? Ellesmera or Farthen Dur? Ellesmera was closer, and the border of the forest could be reached in nearly the same time it took to get to Yazuac. However, first Brom would have to pass through Therinsford, and he would likely try to get a mount along the way. Snowfire was sold in Therinsford stables, he recalled. All he'd have to do was ask around to see which direction they went...

A focused calm came over Eragon's mind. The egg was not lost, and it was in the safest hands he could imagine. For now, all he had to do was focus on catching up.

Without even a glance behind him, he hurried forward.

Carvahall quickly vanished into the distance.

* * *

><p>A day passed before Eragon spotted Therinsford. He was exhausted from lack of sleep, and his stomach often complained for lack of food too. He had stopped a few times to drink from puddles of water, melted from the snow by the slowly warming sun. Once it was night he resorted to letting it melt in his mouth, and otherwise the cold was welcome, soothing his burning muscles.<p>

With Therinsford only minutes away, Eragon let his pace slow. What he really needed was a horse, he reasoned, but he had no idea how to obtain one.

...He'd forgotten how ugly the city was. The building were sprawled and disorganised, many poorly walled or roofed. Slate was too common, mud brick even more so. The Anora river ran around much of the side, and as Eragon came to the bridge a greasy man jumped out of the bushes before him.

He was poorly dressed, even without considering the cold, and Eragon saw him shiver slightly. His breath smelt of a putrid mix of alcohol and rotting teeth. Eragon made to step by him, but the man moved to block his path again. "Uh-ah. Ye can't go any further. Y'got to pay t' get across."

Eragon scowled. He didn't have any money. The man didn't know that though, so Eragon moved his arm as if to retrieve a coin purse, but then at the last moment, he gripped his bone dagger and smashed the pommel into the man's forehead. He recoiled, dazed, and Eragon took the moment to grab a stick off the ground and smash it over the man's skull. He dropped like a stone.

He didn't have money, but the man did. That would at least solve a few of his problems. Unfortunately, the man didn't have much. He vaguely remembered Brom cutting his purse, and it was likely he'd done the same this time. The man only had five crowns. Eragon kicked the man in the head and then, confident that he would not wake for several hours at least, he rolled him into the bushes.

Finding the barn where he remembered the horse salesman to be was not difficult. The man was inside, wearing a depressed look as he brushed a grey mare. When he noticed Eragon he forced his lips into a smile, and beckoned him forward.

"'Lo there." Greeted Eragon. "Have you perhaps seen two men pass through here? They would likely have bought horses."

"I might have," the man grunted, "but it's no business of mine where they travel, especially if someone would want to follow them."

Eragon feigned a wince. "I'm sorry, it's just... one of them is my father. A messenger came through and he left for business purposes, but there's been a family incident since he left and I desperately need to speak with him."

The man squinted at Eragon, then the smile came back to his face. "Ah yes, I see the resemblance. Only one was in need of a horse. A slightly aged man, with silver hair?" Eragon nodded silently. "Yes, he came through a few hours ago, the other was already prepared; a prime courier horse if I've ever seen one. Your father took my best. You'll have a hard time catching them without a steed..." He paused for a moment. "...And even then maybe at all."

Eragon let out a mournful sigh. "I doubt five crowns is enough to buy even your poorest. No, I'll just have to take the trip on foot. Did they perhaps mention where they were going? He'd either be going north to Ceunon, or south to Belatona."

"'Fraid not. Though he did mention needed something for a lot of heavy riding, and Ceunon isn't that far. And... I hesitate to say this, but I do have one horse that I might be willing to part with for that price..."

"Might?"

He gestured to the mare he was brushing. "Siena has been with me for three and twenty years, and she's been my best breeder. But she's past her prime, and she can't give another. I've raised her from birth. It saddens me to say it, but she's only occupying space now, and costing me more than I'd like. But she's dear to my heart, and I'd be willing to part with her if you'll treat her well." He paused. "How familiar are you with horses?"

"My family has had two of them, all my life." Replied Eragon. "I would have brought one, but neither are fit for saddle. They are too used to cart and plow."

The man shrugged, and walked across the barn to retrieve a weathered saddle. "If you can put this on her without too much of a fuss, she's yours."

Eragon took the saddle, and then looked at the mare. He could see the signs of age, her coat had been worn thin, but what remained was a grey so light it was almost silver. There was the faintest showing of ribs on her sides, but it was offset by a set of legs as thick and strong as any other horse there. She looked at him as he approached, and she snorted. Slowly, Eragon reached out with his mind. It was incredibly difficult, a layer surrounded his thoughts, and he struggled to push through. Finally, he managed to connect to Siena's mind, and he sent her images of peace and happiness. _Friend. We're going to be great friends._

She calmed, and waited as he approached. He stroked her on the nose lightly and then threw the saddle over her back. Once he had tightened the straps- not too tightly, he clambered onto her back.

The man looked at him awestruck. "You have quite a way with horses lad. I can barely get her to relax like that, and I've known her all my life! If you ever find yourself in need of work, come by and I'll see what I can do."

Eragon smiled. "You're a good man. ...You know, I never got your name."

The man laughed. "Don't suppose you did. I normally much more polite than that! It's Haberth."

Eragon counted out the coins and gave them to him. "Eragon. May I encounter you again in better times, Haberth."

Haberth nodded and stepped aside to allow him to pass. "Certainly. Now, look after Siena, you hear!"

"Like she was sired by Gildintor himself."

Again, Haberth laughed. "You're certainly your father's son."

* * *

><p>Siena may have been old, but her strides were strong and smooth, and her breath even after more than an hour of riding. Eragon didn't manage to pick up on Brom's trail, but he didn't need to. After he'd thought about it, there really was only one place he could go. Brom wouldn't know it, but the elves' borders would be closed, following the loss of Arya. While it was possible Brom may still be able to enter, he would not do so with a companion. Who it was, Eragon did not know. But he would allow none other than a trusted member of the Varden to accompany him while he had the egg. Or an elf, admittedly, but Eragon doubted very much that an elf had been the one to visit. They would not have been nearly so mundane in their communication. Haberth's mention of a courier horse only reinforced this notion. There would have been no way that a horse trader could have not noticed the difference between a regular horse and an elven steed.<p>

* * *

><p>Which, of course, left Farthen Dur as the only possible destination. It was the only other truly safe place. However, what Eragon wasn't sure on was <em>how <em>Brom would get there. He could travel east, and follow the northern edge of the _Ninor _past the Isentar lake, and then south along the edge of the Hadarac desert. The problem with that path was that it was terribly exposed, and it ran too close to Uru'baen for either of their liking. Unless, of course, Brom found a way to traverse the desert itself, which would be the fastest route. He didn't know whether Brom would think of the same trick as he had, but then Eragon realised that Brom probably wouldn't even have the strength to attempt it so often. He knew that Brom's ability had declined, even though he had stored such a tremendous energy in Aren, he would waste neither resource.

His other option was to go south to Teirm or Dras-Leona. The second option would allow him to take passage on a ship going further south, transporting him quickly into Surda, where he would be as safe as possible to make the rest of the trip east to the Beor mountains. The first, if he recalled right, would take him to Jeod. If Brom sought passage on Jeod's ships he would be delivered straight to the Varden. Though, Jeod's ships would have been disappearing for some time now, and would Brom take the risk?

There was no way of knowing. With hope, Brom would go to Teirm before deciding it was too risky, and taking the trip back to Dras-Leona instead. If he did that, it would buy Eragon a great deal of time, time that he needed. Once the egg was in Farthen Dur it would be very hard to retrieve, something only made worse the longer it was there. Worse still, Brom may decide to take it to the elves once he heard of their silence, and it would be out of Eragon's reach forever.

Eragon needed to take a faster route. It was the only way he could make up for Brom's superior horse, as well as his supplies of money.

Eragon needed to pass through Uru'baen.


	5. Rememberance

Well, this chapter took longer than expected. Probably because it was a lot trickier than expected. Anyway, it's done now. I admit, it isn't as good as I'd like, but it was either taken as is or with another week and who knows how much inspiration lost. I think I can guess which you guys prefer.

So, enjoy, and R&R? Up to you.

* * *

><p>As the days passed, Eragon's initial lack of planning hurt him more and more. He had no food, and no tools. Water, thankfully, was everywhere this time of year, and both he and Siena drank gratefully from the puddles that accumulated in the noonday sun.<p>

For the day he pushed Siena, but when it became apparent that he was _still _losing ground, he let her take her own pace, and he covered what he thought to be four leagues each day. It was reasonably impressive, considering that the roads were snowed over, and Siena had to push her way through. Eragon considered getting off to help her, but as his stomach began to complain more and more, he instead focused his attention on getting food.

When he reached out with his mind, Eragon felt like he was pushing through a thick layer of tar. He could only find another mind at fifty paces, a pitifully small amount. But it was the only tool he had, and so he used to find what animals he could. Most were hibernating for the winter, their sleeping minds a bastion he would not risk, but here and there he would find rabbits close to waking, and it took a slight prod to do so. From there, it took a delicate and tricky combination of mental commands to force it to the surface. He lost them as often as not-their panic barring him out, but Eragon was able to sustain himself. Building a fire was for them was less difficult than most would assume. Twigs and sticks were everywhere beneath trees, though damp. Once he dug them up, and then waited for them to dry, lighting them was fairly easy. Siena ate much more than him, but she managed from the grass revealed on the tops of hills, where the snow was thinnest and would melt at midday.

Nightfall was a different matter. Eragon had to spend an hour each night digging through the biggest snowdrifts he could find to hollow out a cave for him and Siena. Only his gloves saved his him from losing his hands to the ice. It was a tight fit, but he clung to Siena for her warmth. She would make little complaints here and there, but she did not stop him, and he suspected she needed his warmth as much as he needed hers.

As the days passed and they got onto the plain, Eragon soon found that the sheer flatness of it all ruined his ability to protect them at night, and he was forced to direct Siena southward to stay abreast the Spine. Sometimes he would mutter words from the ancient language under his breath, cursing his lack of magic. Back when he'd had magic, he could have solved half of these problems in a heartbeat. Or Saphira could have...

But then he would shake his head to break his pattern of thought, and he would spend the next hour mindlessly staring at the path ahead.

After a week, Eragon found that his ability to sense animals had increased. He could now reach out eighty feet, one hundred if pushed himself, though it would leave him gasping. Whether the improvement was due to practice, increased power, or a stronger will he was not sure.

The cold had also grown less bothersome. He still needed to dig out a hollow each night, but he no longer shivered constantly and sleep came easier. Though, that may also have been due to the collection of furs he had amassed, which he had 'woven' together with braided reeds. He must have looked quite the sight, but he would have smelt worse. Siena complained often now, and Eragon wanted to share her sentiments, but he was cheered to be warm.

* * *

><p>Five days later, as they were passing around the mountain north of the Flam lake, Siena suddenly snorted and whinnied. Eragon scratched her ear for a moment to calm her, and then gently touched her mind. He was imparted with the smell of smoke. Eragon looked up, and after a few minutes, he was able to locate a tiny stream of darkness coming from the lower end of the mountain. Curious, he turned Siena towards it. He guessed that some traders had taken refuge near the base. He had little to trade, but perhaps there was a service he could perform. He needed supplies badly, and Siena couldn't eat browned grass forever.<p>

Getting there took the remaining part of the day. As he got closer he began to notice furrows in the snow, indicating that a great group had been through recently. Within the last couple of days he guessed. The marks increased as he got closer, and Eragon began to wonder if perhaps this was a nomadic village. Great swaths were carved through the snow, and Eragon's estimate began to exceed fifty.

Finally, he walked over a final ridge, and collection of tents came huts came into view. They were large and looked sturdy, and were brightly decorated at the door with strips of multicoloured cloth. Long pillars of carved wood rose everywhere, but Eragon could not make out the details. The whole place looked very familiar.

Eragon froze and cursed loudly. _Urgals! This is an Urgal village!_

He turned Siena harshly, and she whinnied in protest, but galloped quickly as he forced her away from the mountain. She tired quickly, but he pressed her forward with his mind, and she moved as fast as she could with what she had left.

When night fell, they did not stop. They were both hungry, and thirsty, and Eragon got off the saddle to let her _rest_ as he walked her forward.

And he prayed they hadn't been seen by a sentry.

* * *

><p>For not the first time, Sienna saved his life. Her whinny alerted him to another presence and Eragon got just enough warning to dodge the arrow that shot towards him in the dark.<p>

There was no wind that night, and there was the faintest reflection of the full moon off metal behind him. Another arrow shot towards him, glinting dully, and Eragon used his cloak of animal skins- heavily folded- to absorb the bolt. Eragon's arm twinged with a pain against the pressure, but the arrow did not reach him. Twice more arrows shot out, and Eragon managed to block them both.

Then, there was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and Eragon ran, pulling Siena along. Less than a minute later he heard a grunt behind him, and pushed against Siena just in time to dodge the heavy handed swing of an axe.

He turned, and before him stood an Urgal. It was a full two feet taller than Eragon, over seven foot in all, even though its back was hunched. It carried an axe with a shaft over four feet long ended in two jagged edges. Its horns were massive, curved twice around, between which was set a contemptuous snarl. Behind it, three more approached, all three armed with bows, who Eragon noted were female.

Eragon hastily drew his dagger and let his cloak fall to the ground. The lead Urgal grinned as Eragon turned to face him, and the females lowered their bows, though they moved to surround them both.

The Urgal bellowed and charged Eragon, his axe swinging heavily in a deadly arc. The swing was slow however, and Eragon ducked and darted forward with his dagger, but the Urgal merely stepped back out of reach. He swung again, vertically this time, and again Eragon dodged and with a quick turn of his wrist, buried the dagger into the Urgal's forearm.

It howled, and the axe slipped from its grasp. But then it twisted its arm, and with a grunt of pain, it tore the dagger from Eragon's hand. The Urgal stepped back and grunted again, its features awash with pain, but it pulled the dagger out and threw it away into the snow.

Eragon cursed. The axe was far too heavy for him to use. His muscles were weak, lacking the same kind of strain he'd gotten from wielding a sword, and now he had no dagger. The only reason he'd gotten this far was because this Urgal was old. He was at the age where he would usually die in a match with a younger, stronger counterpart. The fact that he'd lasted this long spoke of a degree of skill and determination Eragon could have admired, if he wasn't fighting for his life.

With a flex of its muscles, the Urgal charged him. Eragon tried to roll to the side, but the Urgal swept out with its undamaged arm and grabbed him, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. Eragon tried to escape the grapple, but the Urgal used its superior weight, and Eragon was pinned. It gripped Eragon's head and began to twist, and Eragon felt his muscles burn as he tried to resist it. He met its eyes for a moment, and the Eragon used that as an opportunity to dive into its mind.

There was a momentary flare of alarm from the Urgal, but walls of stone rose up around its mind, blocking Eragon's entry. Its arms flexed once more, and Eragon felt his strength waning. Desperately, he reached out to the others, but they rebuffed him just as easily.

Eragon's cheek was pressed into the dirt, and the Urgal continued to twist.

_So this is the end..._

The thought was clear, and frightening. Eragon wished, for the first time since he had arrived, that Saphira was here. He missed her so much.

Energy suddenly surged through his body. Stronger and stronger, and then Eragon was resisting the Urgal's strength. He turned to face it, and its eyes widened in surprise. The energy grew reached a peak, and the he felt as if he would burst if he tried to contain it.

"Sundavar knifr!"

A stream of inky blackness formed suddenly, and then shot forward. The Urgal froze, and the pressure of his arms vanished. A moment later, his head rolled off his shoulders, perfectly severed.

The darkness hung in the air as Eragon stood. Around him the Urgal women looked at him wide eyed, but then quickly raised their bows. Automatically, the darkness took the shape of a giant scythe, which whipped around the area. All the Urgals fell, silently screaming and clutching at their slit throats.

Eragon panted, and the darkness faded. He felt an incredible weakness come over him, which got worse in seconds. Slowly, mindlessly, he stumbled forward, and looked down at one of the Urgals.

Her eyes were wide, terrified, and the hands pressed to her throat did nothing to stem the tide of blood. His head tilted slightly to the side, as if examining an interesting curiosity, and he knelt down and pressed his hand against the exposed flesh of her arm.

This time, she could not resist him, and he delved into her mind and pulled from her body all that it had. Eragon felt a sudden rush of energy, which quickly began to vanish in his body's desperate attempt to recover, and the Urgal went still and silent. He stumbled away from her, and looked down at the second. Her eyes were tired, and the pool of blood was heavier around her. She had been cut deeper. With barely a thought, he touched an arm and drew from her all that she had left, and Eragon felt a feeling of peace as she slipped into the abyss.

His strides grew stronger as he met the third. Despite the blood pouring from her, she glared at him, defiant in her soon to be death. He reached forward, but she suddenly revealed a dagger and stabbed towards him. With a flick of his arms, he caught her arm and looked her in the eyes.

"_Namta." _Her eyes widened for a moment, but they quickly slid out of focus as he collected her energy. He took his time with her, and by the time he was finished the energy he had used on the spell had been recovered, and more. He stood tall, feeling stronger than he had in weeks. Looking around, he felt strangely detached from everything. He saw Siena fifty yards away, beginning to return to him now. The Urgals lay in a circle, the male in the middle, and he felt a stab of sorrow.

_Saphira._

The feeling increased dramatically. Tears slid down his cheeks, falling to the ground to freeze.

Why did he do it? He'd blocked her out, all the memories, for so long. The good times, the bad times. The times where a sliver of her wisdom, or personality, or feelings would leak through.

He'd blocked out a part of himself, a part of her, a part of _them,_ and so it had held him back.

Eragon curled up on the snow, his knees pressed against his chin, and wept.


	6. No luck at all

First off, a translation from the precious chapter. 'Namta' –Urgal word for _rest._

Another chapter already? What pace am I going at right now... a chapter every two days, minimum? I'm up till past midnight most nights writing, and this morning was no exception. The things I do for you guys.

This chapter took a little longer than usual. Probably because it's about thrice the length of my normal stuff. There's something inherently amusing about writing a chapter almost as long as every other chapter combined, but I don't decide when a chapter is done, the story does.

I may have said it before, but I'll note it again now. Reviewers get prizes! I try to make a point of replying to every review I get, and people who ask questions often get answers!

Ok, now that the shameless self promotion is out of the way, on to the chapter, eh? Enjoy.

* * *

><p>The ability to use magic changed everything.<p>

Well, not everything, but Eragon knew he had just evolved from 'barely threatening to an Urgal' to 'a credible threat to an entire city.' It would take preparation for the latter, but the statement rang true.

When he had made his return in time, he had likely been the most knowledgeable in the intricacies of _gramarye _in all of Alagaesia. Even now he knew he might still hold that title. The spell he'd used to kill the Urgals had been one of his own inventions. Incredibly draining on his energy, but horribly difficult to defend against. It was a terrible waste to use it on anyone without wards, as the Urgals had been, but he had been reacting, no more. He was lucky he didn't kill them outright though, if he had he wouldn't have survived the effort.

...His only wished that he'd discovered his magic earlier. Why had he assumed that he wouldn't have it? It was true, not many had the talent, and most Riders gained it solely through their dragon bond. But for everyone else, it was merely activated by knowing what it _felt _like, and then knowing the words. His own mother had been a magician, and if the talent ran in blood, he had enough to make even elves jealous.

But he had spent the last months avoiding thinking, avoiding _remembering, _and he could hardly find his power in a mind closed off. But when he had opened himself to it, it had come easily.

_Saphira._

It would take time, he knew. If he opened himself to it entirely right away, he would be a crying wreck, useless for travelling, let alone magic.

For not the first time, he wondered how Brom managed it.

...He was travelling much faster now. The encounter with the Urgals had been, in a way, fortuitous. They had more than enough clothing between them, thick and resistant to the cold, for him to stay warm even in the heaviest blizzard. He'd distributed some of it to Siena, cleverly cut and retied to cover her exposed edges. What had been shortswords for the Urgals had been broadswords for him, and he taken two. The best, then another as a spare. The bows had been crude, but Eragon guessed he had enough skill to make up the difference, and taken one of them too. After he'd finished looting them, he'd muttered spells to cover them in snow. It was hardly a proper burial, but he hadn't the time or the energy. Besides, it served the secondary purpose of hiding what had happened, which was much more important.

His magic was weak, almost as much so as when he'd first started an age ago with Brom and a pebble, but it was enough. Game no longer had to be seduced out of their hiding spots with his mind, but could be pulled out with magic. He preferred a mix of the two, but he did what he must. He leeched the energy from those he killed. Rabbits usually, but once a deer, and distributed it between himself and Siena. With the rabbits, he was even able to cook them while in the saddle, courtesy of a tricky combination of spells, which saved him hours of time he would have spent making a fire to heat them.

Now properly supplied, they were finally able to cut across the plains. The cold and wind buffeted them, but Eragon kept them on course, and within a few days the snow decreased, and then vanished, and it seemed to please Siena, for he whinnied complaints reduced sharply. She ran further each day, much better fed on the green plains grass, and her energy bolstered by what he could offer. His energy was not much to her, but he also collected elsewhere, and wherever they passed dead plants lay behind. There were limits to what her body could withstand, and so Eragon kept the remainder in himself. His energy grew and grew, and at times his muscles twitched, as though overcharged. And so, three days after the encounter with the Urgals, he was ready to perform something difficult.

* * *

><p>Eragon closed his eyes as he muttered a stream of words. Twenty feet away, Sienna snorted breathily at his antics before returning to her meal.<p>

The spell was annoyingly complex, consisting of twelve separate incantations, all of which required concentration to maintain. It taxed his current abilities to the limit, but he did not waver. As he muttered the final words, he became aware of a feeling over his skin, like the touch of feathers. Eragon's brow furrowed, and the feeling increased as his awareness spread. One hundred feet, two hundred, then more. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

"Reisa!"

In several directions, the ground shifted slightly as stones were forced to the surface. Eragon felt slightly dizzy, but as the movement stopped, he spoke a third word, and they fell over to him, collecting in a pile of glittering fragments in his palm.

Eragon felt a great strain lift as he released the spell, and he paused for a moment to catch his breath.

Most of the fragments were no larger than a grain of sand, but the sent rainbows of light across his arm when he held them to the light. Diamonds. They were small, low grade. Only a few would be good for sale, but they would have been worth at least ten crowns each. Together though... Eragon grinned and spoke his final spell. The fragments wriggled in his hand and then leapt together, flowing like liquid until Eragon held a sharply faceted crystal the size of his big toe. The energy drain for the spell was intense, and Eragon's vision blurred slightly, but the moment passed.

Eragon grinned again. If anyone else had done this, they'd have been dead. Unless they had a large storage of energy prepared, they wouldn't have been able to handle the strain. When Saphira had fixed the star sapphire, the amount of energy she had been channelling had been enough to level Uru'baen, and the diamond, though small, had a comparable cost.

But most people were not Eragon. There were little tricks you could use to cut corners. Most mages would look at a broken sword and expend the energy it would take to reforge the steel. Eragon would look at a broken rock and expend as much as it took to wield the hammer that smashed it. It wasn't quite that simple, but it was possible. Diamond, being a fair amount stronger than either required more energy, but it was within his abilities.

With an exhausted yawn, Eragon pocketed the gem. Tomorrow, he decided, he'd make a chain, or something simple to keep it within reach yet out of sight. He mused that perhaps he should cover the gem in something, such as iron to make it appear as a (much) less extraordinary pendant, and decided that was for the best. It wouldn't be the best medium, and would result in some degree of wasted energy, but it was too much of a risk to have it seen. Guards, if they saw it, would arrest him on the spot. He wasn't a noble, and they would know it. Anyone else would spread tales, and he hardly needed to be harassed by every thief or strongarm with empty pockets.

He decided it was time to rest for the night. The sun wasn't entirely down yet, but he was tired, and an early start would do him good. Most of the game animals were most active in the morning, and it would make breakfast easier, at the very least.

That night was less pleasant than he would have liked. His lowered mental barriers slipped further during the night, and old memories awoke.

* * *

><p><em>Eragon found himself in a grassy plain. He was lying against something, grass swaying against his naked feet with hints of wind. It was night, and the stars twinkled overhead, seeming brighter than normal in the moonless night.<em>

"_Do you ever wonder if we won't make it?"_

_There was a slight movement behind Eragon's back. 'No. We will succeed because we must. And if we were to die, we would do so in a way that achieved our ends.' _

"_And you're not afraid to die?"_

'_...My life is not all I wish it could have been. Yes... Eragon, even I have regrets. No, I won't tell you what they are. But I trust in that I have always done what I saw best at the time, and that is enough for me. And if I am to die, I will be sure to tear out the throat of whoever lands the blow in return.' She growled. 'A dragon can have no prouder death.'_

"_They'd have to get through me first."_

_He can feel her eye on him, twinkling softly. 'I'd destroy them with my claws before you got close enough.'_

"_I'd kill them with magic first." He retorted._

'_And I'd slay them with my fire before you formed the words.' She said proudly._

_Eragon laughed. _

_His attention was caught by the stars for long moments after that, and silence resounded. _

_Suddenly, his hand felt damp. Curiously, he lifted it from the ground, and it came to him red with blood._

...A sudden movement woke him from his sleep, and Eragon felt tears on his face. Beside him, Siena folded her legs and lay at his side, her brown eyes watching him silently.

He met her gaze for several minutes before finally rolling over, and slept dreamlessly.

* * *

><p>Five days later, Eragon reached the road south from Gil'ead just as the sun was passing overhead, and let out a sigh of relief. He'd been expecting it several hours ago, and he was worried he'd ended up to far north or west. He touched Siena's mind for a moment, informing her of the new destination, and she replied with a flick of her ears.<p>

Eragon had made a habit of trying to strengthen his mental skills, and she had been the best target for constant practice. He wasn't sure, but he thought she could tell, instinctually at least, when he touched her mind. She was unusually intelligent for a horse, and her loyalty was such that he had long since stopped tying her up at night.

The road south was busier than he expected. Not wanting to appear in a hurry, he had allowed Siena to choose her own pace to approach, and so wasn't going fast enough to overtake anyone. However, there was a steady stream of people going in the opposite direction. After a fourth caravan passed him, he decided to speak to the next person he saw.

He didn't have to wait long. As he went around a hill, he spotted a man leading a horse with a cart just ahead. The man was well dressed, though dirtied with extended travel. He had an unpleasant expression on his face that for a moment reminded Eragon of Sloan, but when he saw Eragon his face brightened, his back straightening in what Eragon guessed to be an attempt to be more appealing. He waved at Eragon as he approached, and pulled the cart to the side of the road. Intrigued, Eragon drew in Siena beside him, and the man eagerly held out his hand. "Hello there lad. Are you travelling to Uru'baen?"

Eragon reached down and shook his hand firmly, then nodded. "Yes, just passing through to get to Feinster. Unfortunately, I got t' job of telling my boss that 'is northern shipping branch just went under... and there ain't much metaphoric there."

The man shook his head. "Then I've got some bad news for you. Uru'baen's been walled off. Order of the king or summat... No-one's allowed in or out. I tell you, the damage it's causing, there are over fifty merchants who've spent a week outside the city, spendin' their coin on other merchant's food stocks just so they don't have to go back to wherever. It's almost a riot, but there's twice that many royal guard controllin' it all. I myself spent two weeks coming down from Gil'ead, just to find out I gotta go back."

Eragon cursed silently. The elves had built Illeria, later Uru'baen, on top of the Ramr river. Because of that, one had to pass through the city to get to the other side. Without that, he would have to make a detour of fifteen leagues- or more - to get around the end of the river and make up the difference. The river was too strong to pass by most conventional means, and he in the past had only managed it with Saphira's help. There were a few spells that would allow him to ford it at a reasonable speed, but doing so with Siena would drastically increase the cost on his strength. None of the spells he had would do the job without killing him, and if he had enough energy to do so in the first place, he wouldn't be wasting it only travelling half a mile.

"From the look on your face, you don't like the sound of that." His features scrunched thoughtfully. "Didn't you get the message earlier though? I thought there was another guy up the road tellin' everyone to turn back."

Eragon thought quickly. "I must have missed it. Two days ago I stopped to relieve myself, and my damned horse here went and decided she'd like to take a wander across the fields. Took me half a day to get her back!"

The man let out a low whistle. "Well, since you've had such a hard time, I'll make you a deal. You don't look so well supplied, though perhaps better armed than I would expect. I've got a whole load of pickled meat here, and I'll offer you as much as you want, half price. Might be able to recoup some of my losses, there ain't as much of a market for the stuff in Gil'ead."

Eragon shook his head. "I haven't got any money. I was supposed to be paid a stipend once I got to old 'Baen, and use that to make it the rest of the way." Eragon cursed angrily, though he didn't have to try hard to fake it.

"Damn. Unless..." He looked thoughtful again. "Well, I suppose if you can't go forward, ya gotta go back. If you'll accompany me back to Gil'ead, and help pull this here cart with that horse of yours, I'll look after you. If I make it back even a day early, you'll have paid your keep. Besides, always helpful to have a sword arm around these days."

Eragon smiled, but shook his head. "That's a great offer, but I haf'ta decline. If I don't get this to my boss, I'm not gonna have a job come soon. I'll just have to make do on the road."

"Shame to lose you lad. These are hard times, and a man's gotta do what he's gotta do eh?" The man shook his hand again, and they parted.

Eragon nudged Siena along with a little more speed. Once the man was out of sight, he left the road and went south-west. He didn't like it one bit, and this would cause him to lose whatever he distance he had gained on Brom, but there was just no other alternative.

He tried looking at the bright side, and figured that at least this way, he could gather energy freely. And, honestly, even if Galbatorix wanted to greet him with open arms and crown him king, he would still not want to go within ten leagues of Uru'baen.

* * *

><p>The next two weeks were an exercise in repetition. There were three main roads leading out of Uru'baen, and it Eragon spent a night awake to make the crossing for the Dras-Leona in the dark. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, a remnant of his days as a rider where anyone and everyone might know his face. But remembering an old adage of Brom's, 'people often remember things they shouldn't', he decided he was better safe than sorry. And if his luck just happened to be bad enough, he could always claim he was led better by the stars than the sun. Though, he thought dryly, it was a horrible excuse.<p>

Each day he practised his mental control, fortifying the bond between him and Siena. Sometimes he would reach out with his mind, pushing as far as he could in every direction. Eragon was able to measure the distance up to half a league, but once he bypassed that he had no way of knowing the distance, but he kept pushing his limits anyway. He collected all the energy he could from plants and animals as he passed and stored it, though he was careful not to leave too much of a trail. He killed plants rarely, just often enough to be explained by bad weather or soil, but many others he took what they could spare. Each night he gave up what he had left to the gem, and soon it held an impressive store of power. He'd done as he intended, and layered the gem in a cover of concealing metal, held to his neck with a string of leather. It had been difficult, but he'd given the layer a concealed opening from which he could touch the diamond directly and not suffer the waste that occurred when magic was channelled through metal. In such occasions, the metal would warm to certain amounts, unless it was affecting the metal itself. It wasn't much, in fact metal was the second least wasteful conduit, but Eragon decided he needed all he could get, and wasted nothing.

The land south of the Ramr river was mostly farmland, but few who saw a travel passing around their fields would think much of it. They would think he was heading to Furnost, likely from Dras-Leona. Once he passed the old road to Aberon however, he was careful not to be seen. As far as the empire knew, there was nothing further east. And Eragon was happy to let them conclude nothing.

He cleared the farmland a day later. Spring was beginning to come in, and the warm sun on his face was welcome each morning. It was warm enough that afternoon that he and Siena rode into the night willingly, and when they woke the next morning, the great expanse of the Hadarac desert stretched before them.

* * *

><p>Crossing the desert was easier than expected. He supposed it was because last time he had been travelling as fast as he could, where now he could take the trip at a more reasonable (but still not slow) pace. Where in his original flight from Gil'ead he had been followed by half an army, and <em>hours <em>could be crucial, now the difference was measured in days, and he did himself no favours by trying to reduce the time. It also helped that he was expending a small amount of energy shielding his and Siena's faces from the sand, if not the heat. They drank often to keep their strength up, and Eragon had begun practising with his looted sword while on horseback. It was awkward, and his muscles burned, but he persisted, knowing he needed to get his strength up. At the very least, being stronger and healthier would mean more energy for his spells, and less power he would have to expend to make up the difference if he got into a sword fight. He contemplated resuming the _Rigmar, _something he had been putting off since he came back, but decided that whatever help the exercises would bring would not help in his current task, and he decided to wait a little longer.

By nightfall on his second day in the sands, he could see the end of the Hadarac desert, a flowing line in the distance. The Beor mountains had swum into view over the course of the day, hazy mirages that got more and more solid as time passed. As always, he felt dwarfed by their size, and he remembered Saphira recounting that they made her feel tiny and insignificant. It was not something she'd ever repeated.

That night, the dreams got worse.

* * *

><p>"<em>She's beautiful isn't she?"<em>

_Eragon grinned, and that face was mirrored in the man across from him. The man carried a baby, a baby nestled in a crib of blankets. Indeed, Eragon found it hard to look away. Her face, halo'd with red hair, spoke of a beauty that was blossom as she aged._

_He felt someone prod his ribs, and he turned to see Katrina looking at him curiously. She looked tired, but proud. The baby was only days old, but she stood straight, as if her still heavy stomach was only a featherweight, easily ignored. "You look stunned... Yes, Eragon, that's a baby. It's what happens when two people fall in love. Maybe you should consider that yourself, hmm?" She smirked._

_Eragon rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "It's not for lack of trying, I assure you." He looked back up to Roran. "May I hold her?"_

_The man grinned again and passed the baby over. Eragon the weight sink into his arms, soft..._

_...and cold._

_He looked down, but the baby was dead, it's flesh blue, frozen. He recoiled, looking up, and Roran's headless body stood before him, spilling blood. Nails dug into his arm, and when he looked, he saw only the bones of a skeleton. There was clatter of vertebrae, and the red-haired skull looked him in the eyes, its mouth moving..._

"_**Be gone!"**_

Eragon awoke screaming.

* * *

><p>The Beor mountains stretched out before him, wide and impenetrable. Now came the difficult part of the journey. He laughed silently at that thought.<p>

How was he to get into Farthen Dur? He had ideas, things that had sprouted and wilted in his head over the past weeks as he examined them, but there was none he truly liked, and all had risks. His current best was to take one of the deep tunnels in. He didn't know them well, but there was one entrance he was aware of that led into the heart of the city. Ironically, it was the same one the Urgals would use, some months from now. If he had his dates right, Orthiad should still be abandoned, or at the most poorly reinforced.

And then a stab of fear struck him, and he realised that it wasn't just the death of Galbatorix that he had undone. Durza would still live.

The thought terrified him. Last time they had fought, the Shade had crippled him. He couldn't risk get into such a fight again, and certainly not at his current strength.

_He'll still be in Gil'ead. _The realisation was soothing on a level he couldn't describe.

_In Gil'ead, with Arya._

Eragon cursed. He'd completely forgotten about Arya. Yet another memory buried too deep. But he could do nothing for her now. And besides... the egg was his priority. She would understand... she would understand.

With a grimace, he pushed the thought from his mind.

...It was another day's travel to get to the peaks surrounding Orthiad, and he would not waste any more time. With a tendril of thought, he urged Siena onwards.

* * *

><p>Finding the passageway into the tunnels was difficult, but not impossible. His suspicions had been confirmed, and there were Urgals beginning to flow into the area. He discovered both pieces of information by touching the minds of birds in the area, and siphoning off the information he needed.<p>

A tunnel running through one of the north-western mountains had collapsed, exposing the passageway to all nearby. It was in an unfortunately obvious area, though the entrance had now been concealed to a degree. As he rode into the shadow of the mountain, he pulled Siena to a halt, and slowly clambered off her back.

He went around to her front, and after a moment began patting her nose. She looked him in the eyes for a moment, and then snorted at him.

Eragon rolled his eyes, and began taking off her saddle. She looked at him again.

He spoke, and when he did it was with voice and mind both. _"You've been a great friend... but now you need to go. You cannot follow me here..." _

When he finally slipped the last of the saddle off, he patted her again and walked away sadly.

He stopped when he heard footsteps in the grass behind him. He turned, and found that she was right behind him, a defiant look in her eyes.

"_Aren't you a smart girl..."_

She didn't reply, couldn't reply, but there was the dimmest sense of acknowledgment within her head.

"_You aren't going to leave, are you?" _Eragon paused, then with a slight effort, he pressed upon her a collection of images, seen rapidly as if from a horse's back. He showed her how to get out of the valley the fastest, and from there, where to go.

"_If I succeed... when I succeed. I'll come back for you. But for now, you must go!"_

Again, there was a sense of acknowledgment, and she pressed her nose against his palm before turning away and galloping. For several minutes Eragon watched, until she vanished from sight.

* * *

><p>The darkness was frustrating, but welcome. After he disposed of the saddle, Eragon had collected the remainder of his supplies and quickly made his way into the tunnels. Both the swords were strapped to his back, and he kept the bow in hand, and strung, with an arrow in his left. It unbalanced him slightly as he travelled, not quite running, not quite walking, but he ignored it. Apart from his weapons, he only had a day's worth of meat. It was poor fare, especially considering the trip that lay before him was at least a week, but he squashed the feeling. In a few weeks, he had managed to collect the spare energy of a few months, and that would sustain him. Water could be obtained just as easily in the caverns, if one knew where to look. The Beor mountains were ridden with underground rivers.<p>

He drew on the energy in the diamond in occasionally over the course of the day. By the time an hour had passed, though he had no way to measure it, it was so dark in the tunnel that he could not see his hand when he waved it in front of his face. He would have been constantly tripping- and running into walls, if not for the dwarves perfect stonecrafting. The tunnel was straight as a rule, and Eragon only had to keep a few fingers brushing a wall to stop him from swaying.

He stopped frequently during the day as the spells he had incanted picked up small traces of water, and Eragon would cut a small groove in the ground to allow water to collect. It was a much more draining task than it had been in the desert, because they water had to pass through cracks in the stone rather than filter through sand, but it was offset by the fact he no longer had to supply for a horse. It also helped that the spells he used to find the rivers had been cleverly worded, sensing for increased moisture in the air around him than tens or hundreds of metres underground, and the energy cost dropped accordingly. In any case, he doubted he'd have been able to collect the later anyway.

When a slight flicker of light showed in the endless darkness ahead, Eragon thought it had been a trick of his mind. But then it showed twice more, holding steady and illuminating the passage ahead. Eragon quickly stopped moving and rapidly incanted a barrage of spells- all involved in hiding his presence, before creeping forward.

As he got closer, he forced himself to focus on the light, no matter how much it pained him, to allow his eyes to re-adjust. Finally, the light flickered once more, crossing the corridor, and Eragon watched as the torch illuminated the horned head of an Urgal, marching across what seemed to be a doorway ahead.

The doors were of iron, and flung open, now rusted with age. The Urgal moved again, this time sitting at the side of the door, prodding at the flame with disinterest while eating something Eragon hoped was jerky.

Slowly, silently, Eragon put the arrow he held against the bowstring, and drew back heavily. The strain was incredible, the difference between a hunting bow and a war bow, but he grit his teeth and withstood it. Then, with a rush of thought, he dove into the Urgal's mind.

The Urgal was no magician, but he had at least a little training in resisting mental attack. However, it was not enough. Eragon struck hard and fast, crushing its defences before invading its mind. The Urgal screamed obscenities at him as he locked it away, and Eragon let his arms relax.

All that needed to happen was one Urgal to set off the alarm, and he would never leave these tunnels alive. If it had taken more than a few seconds to breach the Urgal's defences, if any, or it had tried to make mental contact with anyone, he would have killed it and made the best he could of what followed. This time, it wasn't necessary, and Eragon ran through its memories with practised ease. After learning all he could about the Urgals down in Orthiad, from which he almost on the very threshold of, he rendered it unconscious and scrubbed its mind clean of the encounter. To the Urgal, it would merely remember falling asleep.

After that, he crept forward once more.

* * *

><p>Orthiad was magnificent, as expected of one of the dwarves' ancient cities.<p>

The city itself was woven from a great cavern, like an amphitheatre on a colossal scale. A single spire of granite, hundreds of feet wide and intricately carved, rose from the centre of it all. From here and there Eragon could spot the flames of torches, the sign of Urgals taking refuge.

Eragon snuck through the city like a ghost, dodging Urgals as he noticed them by moving up or down the levels. At one point he had to hide, still as a mouse hunted by a hawk, for over an hour as a pair Urgal conversed. To Eragon's displeasure, it had been a horribly awkward conversation to overhear, as it involved to young males debating their (somewhat successful) attempts to attract mates. At one point however something interesting came up, and Eragon made a note of it. Once they left, Eragon quickly proceeded up several levels to where the Urgals had left their supplies, specifically, cloth and inks for their battle standards.

After taking a quick look around through the barrels kept there, Eragon extracted nine separate squares of cloth, and the dipped them in each in a separate pot of ink. After muttering a few words to make sure his spells were hidden, he cast another to dry them, and then wrapped them in a thick loop of black string. Satisfied with what he'd made, he left the room just as quietly he'd entered it.

And then, he came face to face with an Urgal.

Eragon froze, and so did it. The moment of hesitation was enough for the Urgal to let out the beginnings of a mighty bellow, and Eragon spoke so quickly it was barely legible.

A nerve in the Urgal's brain exploded, and it dropped like a stone. Eragon then pulled an arrow from his quiver and used his bow to launch it into the Urgal's face, and then took off down the corridor, no longer worried about stealth. Luckily, he made it a quarter of a mile before a cacophony of Urgal roars broke the silence. Eragon now took this as his moment to be slow and silent again, far, far away from the scene.

In a way, he'd been lucky. Many magicians were trained to leave their wards up at all times, even when in camp. Eragon guessed he could have won that contest with the energy he had stored, but the Urgal would have more than enough time to drop his wards and alert everyone within a mile of the intruder. Since Eragon had looted this bow- and the arrows- from Urgals, it would seem as if one of their own had been the murderer. The room he had been in was a _supply _room, and an Urgal that had been thieving and been caught could have reacted violently.

He just needed a little luck... something he'd been short on lately.

Eragon made it the rest of the way without any further altercations. The passage into Orthiad had been guarded, but not the way out, thankfully. Perhaps he had inadvertently distracted the guard? Eragon paused for a moment to check for tracks. Unlike the heavily used tunnel he'd used on the way here, this one had a thick layer of dust. There were signs that someone had been on watch here not long ago. Apart from that, there were only two sets of tracks that had made the way out, and there were signs that both had returned.

After muttering a spell to cover his footsteps, he ran into the dark.

* * *

><p>After staying on the move for two days and not encountering anyone, Eragon was at last assured he wasn't being followed. He'd dropped the spell covering his trail an hour after he ran into the dark, but he was still dismayed at the amount of energy drained from the diamond.<p>

Past Orthiad, there were a multitude of branching tunnels, and Eragon hard been forced- more than once- to discern which direction he was going. He had create a werelight; just for a few minutes, enough time to raise enough water to scry himself.

It was an interesting quirk of scrying that it always showed you the point of view of the subject as if you were standing to the north. By simply looking at himself in the water, he was able to discern which direction he needed to go. There were easier ways, true, but he lacked a compass and the original method of magic used magnetism, which was actually more draining.

Besides, Eragon was able to drink the water he collected afterward.

Eragon's food ran out some hours later, but he pushed on. His stomach grumbled for hours the following day, but eventually subsided to a throbbing pain. Eragon was forced to drain more and more heavily on the gem, but some days later, he was unsure of the exact amount, there was a spark of light in the darkness ahead, a tiny wisp of red holding out against the gloom.

A heavy relief ran over him, but his muscles would not stop shaking. Slowly, as quietly as he could, he whispered a barrage of spells. First were those to make him undetectable to mages when using magic, then he layered on wards against scrying, and then finally to strengthen his body. The energy drain on the gem was heavy, and his muscles ached more, but there was a sudden lightness in his step, and a feeling that if he'd wanted to jump to the roof it would not only be possible, but _easy._

Eragon grinned and approached. It took the better part of ten minutes before he was close enough for the sentinels to see him. There were two dwarves on duty, armoured in chain and mail coif, carrying pikes and with axes tucked into their belts. One stood beside a pillar in which was embedded a great conch horn, and put its mouth to it as Eragon approached. The other raised his pike in Eragon's direction.

"Who comes down these tunnels without an Ersidar? I warn you, if you do not speak your intentions I will kill you were you stand!"

Eragon raised his hands calmly, to show that they were empty, and then spoke in the dwarven language; "I apologise, dwarf of the Vrenshrrgn, but I was sent on a scouting mission by Ajihad, and I broke my lantern on the way. Fortunate though was I that it happened when I was not close by it. Since then, I have been traversing these tunnels mindlessly, wishing I was a dwarf! But I have not eaten in days, or drunk in one, and I dearly need to report to Ajihad before he assumes me missing!"

Both dwarves looked visibly taken back. The weapon was lowered, and the mouth taken from the horn. Obviously neither of them had expected him to know their language- and fluently at that, not many of the Varden took the time- or to have such a knowledge to be able to recognise their clan by the stitching on their cloaks.

Eragon kept his hands raised as he approached closer, and both dwarves moved to take a closer look at him.

"Well met young master." The dwarf replied, obviously pleased to be speaking in his native tongue. "We shan't keep you then, just show us the ring and you can be on your way."

Eragon slowly lowered his hands as he crossed the last few yards, his hand appearing to move towards his pocket, but then at the last moment, quick as a snake and with a strength that would astound even elves, he brought a hand down on each of their helmets.

There was a dull crunch that echoed slightly, and both dwarves dropped instantly. Eragon let out a silent scream as his body felt the backlash of the exertion, and his hands, despite the protections he'd put over them, felt like they were broken. Though, if they hadn't been so protected, he wouldn't have hands at all now.

He muttered a spell, and the bones realigned with an itching sensation. Then he examined the dwarves on the floor.

Both had indents in their helms from where Eragon had hit them, and he used a spell to smooth them out. After that, he dived into the dwarves minds, and quickly removed their memories of the encounter. He then healed the wounds his blows had caused, and then gave one of the dwarves a fake memory of letting his partner get some sleep after he collapsed on his feet. It wouldn't hold up to much suspicion, but it was all Eragon could do. Anything else would alert all of Farthen Dur to a foreign presence, perhaps not now, but within a day, and he couldn't risk that.

The quick scan of the dwarves minds had revealed little usable information, though he was thankful he took the route he did. They had both been protected by wards. Small, weak ones, but enough for the protector in the city to know if debilitating magic had been cast on them. In addition, their minds were fortified- heavily. There was no way he could have broken through before they sounded an alarm. While unconscious though, their defences were lowered.

There was no need to further distort their memories, so he raced down the corridor. With their wounds healed, they would wake quickly, and hopefully the deception would evolve naturally.

Some hours later, another two dwarves suffered the same fate. With that final barrier overcome, Eragon finally stepped into the light of a thousand lanterns.

He had reached Farthen Dur.


	7. Interlude I: Brom

First interlude.

When Garrow had come knocking at his door, presenting him the egg and begging he hide it, Brom had been astounded.

He was pretty sure he'd choked on air, and it had taken him a minute to respond. He'd taken it without question, and swore that it would never be found by Eragon again. It was only later, as he made his way through the pass beneath Utgard that he began to question the full measure of what that meant.

Just _how _had Eragon come across the egg? Why had Garrow been so desperate to get it away from him? He suddenly wished he'd gotten more details instead of waving dumbly and setting Garrow on his way.

Brom had double and triple checked the egg, but there was not a crack or splinter on it. The mind of the dragoness within was still silent, still waiting.

So many things didn't add up that it would have been hilarious, if it wasn't so serious. Had he been drawn to it? Or it to him? It didn't make sense. Yes, Eragon was a rider's son, and while that was not a particularly common occurrence, he'd never heard of anything unusual attached to that lineage. If he'd had the strength, he would have contacted Oromis just to make reason of it all. But as it was, he needed to get the egg to safety, and safety was not in the middle of the countryside, on the exact _opposite _corner of the Varden in Alagaesia. It was with this in mind that he set a route to Teirm.

-0-

The journey was quick, for he could afford to wasted time. He had wondered what had happened to Arya and her companions, but he concluded that an attack- or ambush- must have slain them. She would have done what she must, and sent the egg away with magic. He knew the spell, though he had not the strength to do so without reaching into Aren. Likely, she would have sent it to him, but the spell was known to be inaccurate at the best of times. Nobody knew why. Perhaps Eragon had come across it? It would have been suitable for his luck on Brom's part. If he could help it, the boy would never known of the war and suffering he had seen.

Jeod had been almost as astounded as he had been when he appeared at the merchant's door. The moment they had reached a secure spot, he recanted all the details, along with a request for help. That's when Brom found out about Jeod's troubles. It was then that he decided to help him.

It was risky, true, but he needed the quickest passage possible, and the Varden _needed _those supplies. If it was pirates, he'd destroy them. If it was Galbatorix's forces, well, he'd probably end up doing the same. There was no chance that Galbatorix would be destroying the ships personally, and Brom was assured he'd be able to defeat any number of his pet magicians.

...As suspected, the Empire had been responsible. Single-handedly sinking the ship was one of the more satisfying things he had done in his life, and before he knew it, he was in Surda. From there he joined the supply train that led to Farthen Dur.

When he'd gotten into the city, he'd immediately made his way to Ajihad. The relief that went over the man's face when he said he returned the egg was palpable. As they sat in his office and talked, Brom received thanks for his effort with the cargo ships.

However, he was just as puzzled about how he came to possess the egg as Brom was.

...The egg was immediately moved deep within Tronjheim, with as many guards of Hrothgar could spare. Even then, the actual location was hidden. Only he, Ajihad, Hrothgar and the egg's dwarven guards would know exactly where it was.

It was then, with a month of hard travel behind him, that Brom decided he needed a rest. And so he soon found himself in a bath, washing off the mud and grease he'd accumulated in the trip. A pair of Ersidar- flameless lanterns of elven invention but heavy dwarven use- his only light as he swam in the warm pool. As he reflected on the journey, and then what he had left behind in Carvahall, he let the waters still, reached deep for his magic, and spoke two words.

"_Draumr kopa."_

Darkness filled the water, rippling even if the water was not, and slowly began to clear. Before him, Eragon moved in to a backdrop of darkness, riding a horse he was sure he hadn't seen before. Two swords were strapped to his back, and a crude bow strung to the horse's side.

The moment the scene cleared, Brom jerked so harshly that ripples filled the pool in great waves. His concentration slipped, and the dark ripples faded.

What in the world had happened? This past month was the longest Brom had ever gone without checking on his son in fifteen years. Where did he get those weapons? Whose bow was that? Brom was sure it was not his own. Garrow's workmanship, like Selena's, had a certain touch to it.

And where in the world could he be, that Brom had not seen before? His time as a rider, and the original chase for the egg, had taken him all over the Empire!

Disturbed, Brom cast the spell three times more. When he looked upon Carvahall, he saw the village as it had always been, undisturbed. He then looked upon Garrow, and found him sitting in the darkness, a view of Palancar valley out of a window. The man looked to be whittling something, and his face held focus, but beneath it Brom could see an intense sadness.

Finally, he looked upon Eragon again, and found him still travelling. The boy had drawn one of his swords, though he didn't appear to be in a threatening situation. Then, Eragon began swinging it around, as though practicing forms.

...Brom slumped into the pool, and let the spell fade. Once he was submerged up to his hair, he opened his eyes and stared into the shadows of the pool.

_What is going on?_


	8. A thief in Tronjheim

First off, there was a note at the end of last chapter that was NOT meant to be there. I've since erased it, but for those it confused, I apologise. For those that remember, well, it'll become relevant soon, but feel free to forget and be surprised later.

A note to _FinalReason. _I'd love to reply to your reviews, but you've got the feature off. Guess that's probably for a reason though.

If I ever end up going back and improving my early chapters, you'll have SimplySupreme to thank. To her, you rock girl! And thanks for your support and critique.

A few readers, who I am very thankful for, have questioned this story's review count. So, I bring a challenge to you, my readers. Find C2's out there who would be interested in a story like this. If you liked it, chances are there are other people who will too. Spread the word, spread the fun? Heh.

Next, curiosity question for you guys. Do my chapters seem rushed to you? I mean, Paolini for example puts in a lot more detail about some things. Ya know, the little stuff. I suspect I would be doing the same if Eragon had someone to talk to, but I digress. I'm wondering if I should be padding the chapters more... so, opinions if I may.

Anyway, with that ranting done, lets get my ever length increasing chapter underway.

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><p>No matter how many times he saw it, the sight of Tronjheim- inside or out- would always astound him. The city truly was just too large for words.<p>

Getting to Farthen Dur had been hard, but getting inside the city had been easy enough once there. There were a myriad of tunnels underneath Tronjheim, many connecting to the city itself. It was easy enough to avoid the gates, if one knew the way. Eragon, fortunately, did.

As he gazed at the levels, some flowing with activity, some completely abandoned, and the Isidar Mithrim, built at the peak of the fortress which the dwarf king dwelt, he cleared his thoughts and focused on the task at hand.

Now came the _really _hard part.

As he'd made his way through the tunnels, he'd worked some difficult magic. His face felt awkward, heavier perhaps, and talking made his jaw creak slightly. His hair was now several shades lighter, and his eyebrows had been shifted a quarter of an inch.

It was important that none remembered his face. If he succeeded in taking back Saphira's egg, he'd be hunted like no man in Alagaesia had ever been before. Whoever had seen him could scry him, true, but he had protections from magical means. It was much harder- and more important- that he protect from the mundane ones.

His clothing and equipment were unusual, but once Eragon had donned a brooding expression it was easy enough to slip into the crowd. There were too many humans here for anyone to remember everyone's face, and the dwarves often didn't try.

Eragon took the Vol Turin, the endless staircase, up the levels until he reached one that looked as though it had not seen a visitor in decades, and picked a door at random. The room within measured at five paces by ten and was empty and cold, possibly even meant for storage, but it suited his purposes. He deposited the swords, bow and arrows, as well as the pile of coloured strips of cloth wrapped in string. After looking piteously at his meagre possessions, Eragon left the room and shut the door behind him. After carefully taking note of which room it was, he continued down the levels.

There were a number of mess halls outfitted with quartermasters in the city, designed for mass feeding. Most of the time though, these days, they were populated by the citizens of Tronjheim that simply didn't have the time, or ability, to feed themselves properly, and would visit between tasks. The cook didn't even give Eragon a second glance as he passed him a meal of bread and cheese, with a jug of water to send it down with. Though Eragon _did _get a strange look when he returned for seconds with a radiant smile on his face.

Eragon, who had spent the last month living solely off meat, and the last few days starving, thought they were among the best things he had ever tasted.

As he ate his meal, inconspicuously sitting near a group of dwarves, he listened in on their conversation.

"-and it's back in the city? The elves get lost in the tunnels and ended up finding their way back?" Laughter. "No, heard they got attacked. The old rider found it afterward and brought it back." There was a rumble of discontent. "At least it didn't end up in the Empire's grubby hands." Then, "I heard, from my sister's step-cousin, that Hrothgar is handling the matter himself. Got it locked up in the keep until they can find another carrier. Guarded by twelve of the _Ingietum's _best warriors at all hours." There was another bout of laughter. "Ingietum? They could have passed that honour onto nearly anyone. Just because they make weapons doesn't meant they know how to wield them! I would think-"

Eragon broke off from the conversation at this point. It seemed the egg was the talk of the day. That means Brom had likely arrived yesterday, or at least within two days before that. He cursed silently. Deep down, he'd been hoping that he hadn't arrived yet. It had been a foolish hope, but he'd had it all the same. Still, he'd made good time, and that means he could act before Brom thought of _inventive _protections. Knowing what he knew of Brom, he would have struggled to get through his tricks even when he'd been at his strongest. That said, the egg would still be excellently defended, so how would he do this...?

Eragon returned his plate, and went back to _his _room, still thinking. Once he got there, he took one look at his supplies and decided that was the first thing he'd fix in preparation. After that, he spent the afternoon (he was momentarily pleased to be able to tell day and night again) raiding the rooms on the abandoned level. Most had long been emptied, but every now and again he would come across bits of furniture, scraps of metal, and once a broken set of tools.

The last had been the most fortuitous. Mending them was easy, and he added them to his supplies before collecting everything else he could find and storing it in the room. From there, scrapped the furniture to make up a workbench, and began crafting. All of his productions were done by magic, though it was occasionally better to assist with his hands.

The first thing he did was adjust and reinforce the bow. Urgals had some great crafters amongst their ranks, nothing compared to the dwarves of course, but great enough. They had most certainly been absent from that particular tribe. He added a strip of metal to the forefront of the bow to compensate for the flaws in the wood, and then seared metal rings onto it to hold it in place.

Next he reforged the swords. It was simple enough to add a tremendous amount of heat to a small area, and the transfer that heat to the next rather than letting it dissipate. When he finished he had two swords which looked new, and would appear to be dwarven make, even if they would not hold up to that challenge in the slightest. They were better than they were, certainly, but not even Eragon could make them better without depleting all the energy he had stored and then some, a forge, or better materials.

After that he made himself a waterskin by collecting whatever cushioning he could find from the furniture and fusing the fibres. He melded the sides together until it became a whole, which he stoppered with a brace of metal he crafted. He then made himself a pack by the same means, and also repaired the holes his clothing had accumulated.

Finally, he collected the scraps of coloured cloth he had stolen from the Urgals, and using the string, he stitched the patches together until he had a cloak.

The result was a patchwork disaster. Colours of the entire rainbow, plus black, white and grey were assorted in a chaotic pattern that almost hurt the eyes to stare at. The material was too thin, and the shape overly large and poorly fitting.

And it was perfect.

This was one of the tricks Eragon had accumulated that he wished he could claim was his own. A cloak like this was useless to keep warm in, or even to keep out the rain. But it was the most effective way to block out scrying in the long term. It all came down to another one of scrying's quirks. You could see a person you had seen before, no matter if they had grown or changed. If you could see them, you could also see anything they were carrying.

...Provided you'd seen one before. A sword was a sword. A spear was a spear. Clothing was clothing. But an uncommon weapon? For example, a two bladed sword likes the dwarves' _huthvir? _If they had not seen one before, then no, they would only see blackness, and therein lay the trick of the cloak.

By making its shape fluid, and its colours so incredibly _random_, you could make it _not _a cloak. And so, when scryed upon, one simply had to be aware of the attempt and cover themself in it. All the scryer would see then was a black shape. It was true that this method allowed the scryer to see the area around the subject, but if they subject was in an area the scryer had never before seen, all they would see was darkness, the same as if blocked by magic. It would be simple, if annoying, to hold the defence for days or weeks against such an attempt, though most would give up long before that.

The method had its weaknesses of course. Anyone who saw the cloak could scry the subject properly, until such a time as the cloak was reshaped, it's form and colours randomised once more. In addition, it was hardly inconspicuous in appearance, and one who used such a defence in a town would be wasting their efforts, pointing themselves out to everyone thanks to the cloak's jarring colour scheme, and exposing the weakness of the cloak. If everyone used it, it would hardly be effective. Its strength lay in its anonymity.

The original creator, an ingenious elf named Flafthir, had mused that it was best to never let it be seen at all. He'd been one of his and Saphira's guards, what seemed like an age ago. He'd taught Eragon how to make the cloak in the moments between battles at the end of the Varden's crusade, and had told Eragon that perhaps he might find it useful. But later Eragon had wondered if perhaps Flafthir, for the first time, had seen his mortality and wanted to leave a mark behind just in case.

It was past midnight before Eragon was finished his work, and he curled up on the stone and slept like he hadn't in years.

* * *

><p>"Wow... how did you make this place so <em>big!"<em>

The dwarf smirked. "A lot of time, human, and more skill that 'ye could imagine."

"Do you know how long? I'm still new to ...Tronjheim... that's how it's pronounced, yes? If you could make this, it makes me wonder whether it would be possible that there are other cities, all over Alagaesia. I was born into the Varden, but they don't tell you anything in Surda!" Eragon winced internally, perhaps he was laying it on a bit thick. This morning, he'd left the room, surprisingly well rested, and armed with a single one of his newly forged swords. After a pleasant breakfast, he'd meandered around Tronjheim, slowly but surely moving towards the central keep in what seemed like a random fashion. Who he was talking to now was a dwarf guard, one of the four at the doors of the main keep.

"I would think not. They barely know anything in Surda." The dwarf grumbled. "Though that's the way it is all around. In days past the tunnels were thick with traders who wanted to buy superior dwarven craft. But then Galbatorix came, and we sealed the entrances that all knew." The dwarf said this acidly, and a forlorn look came over his face. "That's why we help 'yer kind. If we succeed within this lifetime, you'll see the entire land be reminded of the majesty of the dwarves, who've held this realm for more than seven millennia."

Eragon feigned an awestruck expression, and the dwarves chuckled breathily.

"It's all so much to take in... I mean, do you have bards, or storytellers? I'd love to know more details."

The dwarf rested the tip of his war axe on the floor as he rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "None here. Our clans tell us the tales we need to know when we are still young lads, though older than 'ye be now I'd guess, but I believe that those who wish to hear of dwarves shall find themselves answered, and so I shall answer 'ye myself."

Eragon forced his expression into one of delight. "Would you really! Right now?"

The dwarf shook his head. "Nay, I be on duty lad. But if 'ye have the time tonight, I can tell you as much as 'yer head can fit!"

Eragon looked thoughtful. "I have to go help the cooks tonight... but..." His expression brightened. "If I go help now, I bet I can get out later!"

The dwarf chuckled. "Well then, I shall see 'ye on the bridge when the sun comes down over the tip of the dragonhold- that's that up there-" said the dwarf, pointing, "and don't be late! I shan't wait for 'ye!"

Eragon nodded rapidly and set of running. Once he was out of sight he let out a silent exclamation. His plan was underway. He began running again, though with quite as much hurry, and raced for the Vol Turin. He was barely looking at what was in front of him, as the plans swam before his eyes.

That was a mistake.

As he passed around another corner with great speed, he ran straight into a man, and they both tumbled to the floor.

Eragon felt slightly dazed, but the man threw Eragon off him with a surprising burst of strength. "Watch where you're going fool!" The man yelled. "Get up, you're coming with me, and we're going to find you a suitable punishment!"

Eragon shook his head and begun to stand, but then a hand grabbed onto his arm from behind like a claw and dragged him to his feet. Eragon finally saw the man, and his eyes widened.

Standing before him, in robes of silver and black, were the twins.

They were as bald as he remembered, and Eragon quickly discovered that it was one of them that had pulled him to his feet. Eragon closed his eyes for a moment and, after pushing most of the panic from his voice, said "I'm sorry sirs, I'm late to start cooking, and if I'm any later the cook is probably going to hit me with her spoon! I beg your pardon, but I have to go!"

He tried to run, but the twin's hand closed tighter around his arm, cutting off the flow of blood. Both the twin's faces darkened with fury.

"We think not. You're going to take whatever we dish out, then you can go take your punishment for being late in the first place. Now, down those stairs boy!"

Eragon bowed his head, acting cowed. He needed to get away from them... as soon as possible. It was then, as he stood two steps ahead of them going down that he felt it, like a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, a presence. Eragon threw up barriers, an inner wall, strong and seamless, then an outer wall that appeared weak and frail, but maybe enough to hold for a few seconds. It was a poor bluff, and the slightest push would reveal the deception, but hoped... had to hope...

The presence vanished, but the hand on his arm tightened even further. It seemed they would not risk him alerting anyone to what they were doing. If Ajihad found out they might be entering the minds of the other members of the Varden, the punishment would be severe. Eragon had no doubt that if he'd actually been a defenceless boy, they would have just destroyed him.

The twin's voice was venomous with what he said next. "Come on then... I think the stables need to be mucked out about now! I hope you're not too attached to those boots, because they're going to smell _very _badly by the end of the day."

"Stop!" A voice rang out, halting Eragon's process. The sound was rasping, but carried a strong overtone. It was familiar, very familiar.

The twins froze, and the entire group turned to face Brom. He was as Eragon remembered, clothed in hooded robes like a friar, with a gnarled leather belt that held a sword instead of a pouch. His staff was absent, and so was his slouch, for he stood tall. This looked like the Brom he had known years ago on the journey to kill the Ra'zac. For removed from the one he'd seen in Carvahall. Though, Eragon was quite sure he'd never seen Brom look this angry.

"What are you doing with this boy? Let him go. You have no command within the Varden, no matter how much you'd like otherwise!"

The expression on the twin's faces did not change, but they exposed skin became red, and the muscles on their necks twitched and bulged. "This boy paid us grave insult, and we will see it punished."

Brom's eyes flashed thunderously. "My statement remains. I'll take him, and see that justice is done!" With that, he grabbed Eragon's arm and pulled him away. When Eragon looked back, the twins were staring at Brom murderously.

A few minutes later, once they were out of hearing range, Brom released his arm. "It's a shame you ran into those two." He said gruffly, "but the Varden needs all the help we can get. The least I could do was save you from the torture they could dig up. Though, I am curious as to what you did to annoy them."

Eragon stared at the floor, then looked up nervously for just a moment. "Ran into them. I was in a rush, and I didn't see."

Brom snorted. "And I bet they didn't step aside either. Unfortunate that it was them, anyone else would have just sent you on your way, though perhaps with a small reprimand." He looked down and patted Eragon's back slightly, but then was silent for a long moment. "...Have I seen you before? You seem rather familiar."

Eragon shrugged, _definitely _not meeting Brom's eyes this time. "Perhaps you've seen me in Surda sir, I've only been in Tronjenholm for three months."

Brom's brows furrowed. "_Tronjheim, _and I encourage you not to forget it. The dwarves don't look so kindly on those that do. As for Surda..." He harrumphed... "Never mind. Just an old man's mind playing tricks on him."

"I better be on my way sir. I'm already late."

"Indeed." And with that remark, Brom waved him on his way.

Eragon ran down the corridor with renewed haste without saying anything more. Behind him, Brom turned and went on his way. But then he stopped and looked back, the most peculiar expression on his face.

A few minutes later, Eragon made it to his room, shut the door behind himself, and finally let out the panic.

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><p>Eragon made it to the bridge what he estimated to be five minutes before the arranged time. He'd moved his supplies during the day to an unused room in the tunnels beneath Tronjheim. After that he'd packed his cloak at the bottom of his pack, strapped his sword to his side, and occupied his time refamiliarising himself with the tunnels.<p>

The dwarf arrived mere moments after him. He'd discarded his mail hauberk and war axe, and was now wearing a russet tunic stitched with the symbol of the Ingietum. His hair had been combed and tied, and his beard braided down to just below his chin. An iron dagger was sheathed in his belt, which held up soft leather leggings over thick boots. He waved as he approached, and Eragon extended a hand.

Shaking hands with a dwarf was one of the odder things he'd done in his life. For one, he was taller by two feet. He knew the proper greetings- Orik had drilled them into him- but it was essential in his part as an untested youngling. Regardless, the dwarf was aware of human greetings and shook eagerly.

"I never got your name."

"Brugh," said the dwarf. "And yours?"

"Evan." Replied Eragon pleasantly.

Brugh gestured to one of the passages looping Tronjheim. "Shall we go?"

Eragon nodded eagerly.

"First, 'ye have to understand that dwarves do not prefer caverns... despite what any old storyteller may say. We have a love for grass and sun equal to any man. But it's true that we do take to the dark better than most. Stone is our birthright lad, and when our children are born many attempt to do so deep underground, so as to bring them into the world at their roots. When mine forefather Korgan, over fifty generations ago took his clan to Farthen Dur to carve on what would become Tronjheim, many others were sceptical. He was a young leader, and all but his own clan thought him in folly. Young and foolish, they said. But one hundred years later, more than four generations thine kind I believe..." Eragon nodded. "...Ah yes, but merely half a lifetime for knurla (that's dwarf in our tongue lad), it was finished, and it was mighty. It was in this city that he spent his remaining years uniting the dwarven clans. When he led them into Tronjheim, that is both underground and under the sky, they were in awe. It was this action that led to he being crowned the first dwarven king in these very halls. It is also the reason that the symbol of this city, the capital of our race, is that of Korgan's own standard. It was not our first city, but she is our greatest. She has never been fully emptied, and in times of great peril it is here that mine kind fall to."

Eragon pointed towards the symbol of the Ingietum on Brugh's tunic. "Is that the symbol of your clan then... also Korgan's?"

Brugh nodded. "Aye, that it is. Mine is the Ingietum. We are craftsmen, and master smiths. The name actually translates directly to _fire-workers._ Not all dwarves are equipped by us, for even the Durgrimst Ebardac- the dwarven clan of scholars- have their own craftsman. But when one does seek an implement of superior quality, they come to us. Korgan's symbol doth have but one difference, the thirteen stars surrounding the hammer. One clan to rule, with thirteen so stand by them. Hrothgar, the current king, is Ingietum. My great uncle four times removed as it were. He is a good leader, and it was he who saw us through much of the painful times following Az Jurgenvren... the dragon war."

With that word, Brugh took a deep breath and stopped their pace for a moment. He walked to near the edge of the level, and stared for a long time into open space. Eragon couldn't see his expression, but chose to remain silent. After a time, Brugh merely shook his head. "Alas, for times that once were. Shall we go get a meal? I'll continue while we eat."

It was at this point that Eragon unbuckled his back and exposed a pile of jerky, grinning cheekily the whole time. "There are some advantages to being a cook's assistant."

Brugh laughed. "So there are! Let this tour continue uninterrupted!"

They both grinned as Brugh led them further around Tronjheim. The dwarf cheerily explained more of its history, eventually moving on to the keep, the dragonhold, and as if saving the best for last, the star sapphire. The jerky was emptied quickly, but their stomaches were pleasantly full by the time the time they'd made a full circle of the city.

Though meat was common elsewhere in the dwarven lands, it was actually quite rare within the city, save for fish. Stealing it would be noticed, but not for at least a day, and Eragon did not plan to still be in the city by then.

The city had fallen into darkness long before they both stopped in front of the bridge to the keep, where they'd started. Eragon was still for a moment, staring wistfully at the stronghold. He waited just long enough for Brugh to notice, and then he turned back and asked Brugh to repeat what he had just said while rubbing the back of his head, as if embarrassed. There was a slight pause that followed, but Brugh was no fool, and read Eragon perfectly.

Or that is to say, he read perfectly the image Eragon wanted him to see.

The dwarf rubbed his beard for a long moment. "I suppose no tour is complete without a show of history." He said softly. "Come, and I'll show you the hall of kings."

As he led Eragon across the bridge, Eragon grinned happily, his words a tirade of thanks.

"Think nothing of it lad. All who enter Tronjheim deserve to see her at her full glory." When he reached the great doors, the dwarves there looked at them both warily, but in a flurry of dwarvish, he convinced them to allow Eragon entry.

The doors opened and shut behind Eragon with a faint _boom. _With the guards now out of sight, Eragon once again reached into his pack. This time, he retrieved a bottle of wine, stoppered with cork and wax. The dark liquid sloshed around in the bottle as he presented it. "I had been planning to give you this as thanks, but I think it is better spent now, treasuring good memories."

Brugh shook his head in wonder. "I think I may have chosen the wrong profession! Shall we retrieve some cups then?"

Eragon laughed. "Nay, I brought cups. One never knows when they might get thirsty travelling around a city this large! I shall have extra duties this week, but I think it's worth it." With that, Eragon retrieved two burnished wooden cups and filled them with the wine. A thick, heady smell of berries and smoke filled his nose as he spun the liquid in his cup.

Brugh grinned as he raised his cup. "To Tronjheim!"

"Hear, hear!" Eragon said, and touched his cup lightly to Brugh's.

The dwarf's grin did not falter as he took a light sip of the wine, and then, finding it to his liking, drunk the remainder of the cup in mere moments.

Eragon put the cup to his mouth and tipped it back, but his lips were tightly sealed. He grinned down at the dwarf again, and then refilled his cup. This time Brugh drank it more slowly, and they passed another checkpoint with merely an odd look from the guards.

The dwarf swaggered slightly as they made their way down the final set of stairs, but he merely asked to have his cup refilled again, and Eragon was happy to oblige.

At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the throne room lay before them. The doors were flung wide, unguarded. Gazing down the hall, Eragon could see an empty throne at the end of his sight. At the sides of the hall, statues of dwarves on thrones- the previous dwarf kings- sat, staring long into the distance. Brugh's face brightened as he pointed at the first. The dwarf on the throne looked ancient, his long beard pooling in his lap before falling to his knees. However, his eyes were sharp, and his muscles still strong. The statues held his stone mace- a perfect carving of Volund- tightly, and he seemed ready to spring into action. "Here be mine... mine ancestor. This be... Korgan." Said Brugh, swaying again. As he did he finally lowered the cup, frowning slightly. "You know... know his tale. I shall... instead..."

The dwarf swayed once more, then stumbled, just managing to catch himself on the statue. The cup cluttered to the floor. "What... what be this madness?" He mumbled. "I... I..." Brugh looked down at the cup, then up at Eragon. And then, the bleary look in his eyes sharpened slightly, and then, quick as a whip, he drew his dagger and stabbed.

Eragon stepped aside, easily predicting the blow, and trapped the dwarf's arm. He then spun with his foot, hooking Brugh at the ankle. The dwarf stumbled and fell to the floor.

"You... you aren't..." Brugh tried to speak, but his eyes rolled inside his head, and then he went silent.

Eragon let out a relieved sigh and put his cup onto the floor. He likewise removed the wine from his pack. They were dead weight now. The poison, squeezed from mushrooms found in Tronjheim's caverns, had been easy to mix into the wine. However, a refuse would collect at the bottom of the bottle, so Eragon had needed to shake it to even out the mixture. The wine itself, like the meat, had been stolen earlier that day.

Eragon stretched his muscles for a moment, pleased at how light he felt with the weight gone. And then, with a deep breath, he dived into Brugh's mind.

What he found within was convoluted and disordered, the poison robbing him of his mental fortitude. His body was beginning to shut down. The poison was slow to act initially, but strong once it did, robbing the victim of their balance, then their concentration. Eventually they would fall unconscious, and remain so for the next hour upon which they would die, a consequence of the heart muscles being attacked. It would not be a pleasant death.

Brugh spasmed momentarily, and Eragon's eyebrows furrowed as his probe was pushed to the side. Like one in a dream, a mind crazed like this was a dangerous place to wander, though not nearly as much as the former. With a final forceful push, Eragon broke through Brugh's layers and pulled from him memories.

The egg was kept in an upper level, in an old room originally used for meetings between the king and clan grimstboriths. The room itself was empty, and unguarded, a false trail set from another one which was heavily defended. The door was locked to keep out wanderers, but inside it was barred and sealed in a way only a magician could unlock. Wards had been layered on it by Brom, though they knew not what, bound to a ruby set in the inner frame.

Eragon gasped as he escaped Brugh's mind. Shaking his head, he stood, but then paused, looking down at the dwarf at his feet.

In the light, the Ingietum symbol stood out proudly.

...Eragon cursed, and dove into his head again. With a titanic force a will, he took dominance over Brugh's mind, and then spoke three words in the ancient language and bound them to the dwarf. He then planted a false memory in his mind, and extracted himself, upon which he used the dwarf's dagger to cut him in three separate places, thin but deep wounds at two places on his arms, and one on his neck. Brugh began bleeding, but slowly, and Eragon grimaced as he turned away, cursing his inability to let go of the past.

With that, he charged down the hall, leaving silence in his wake.

* * *

><p>There was not a soul in sight as Eragon stood before the door that he knew housed the egg. There were signs this had once been a grand room, but time and disuse had left it dusty and unassuming. It was, quite simply, a brilliant place to hide something, for no-one would think to look there. Without knowing where, even Eragon would not have tried. And yet it held something Galbatorix would likely cut off his right hand for.<p>

With a deep breath, Eragon muttered a prayer and drew deeply on both his magic and on the gem which stored his energy. With a single, barking word, he pushed on both the mechanism and the magic with his mind.

Instantly, a piercing screech rang out, drowning all sound to until Eragon thought he might go deaf. His concentration wavered heavily, but he pushed on, and he felt the barriers around the door give way. There was suddenly an immense drain on his energy, and Eragon drew as much as he could from the gem. Weeks worth of energy was lost in seconds, and for a full fifteen heartbeats, Eragon thought that he had taken too large a challenge, and was about to slip away...

But then, with only a fraction of its energy left, and Eragon's muscles screaming for relief, the drain stopped and the door swung open with a shuddering _clang._

Eragon paused for only a three seconds to catch his breath. He had two minutes, maybe less, before the first squad of guards got to the room. He needed to be long gone by then.

...The room was just as dusty as the outside suggested, and there were low tables everywhere, sized for dwarves, fitted with chairs. In the centre of the room, there lay a larger table with a dusty cloth lay over it, a foot high raise in the middle suggesting the cover of a bust or statue of some kind.

Eragon was not fooled though, and he pulled back the cover.

...It was eerie how it felt to look upon the egg once more. It bore none of the dust of the rest of the room, and almost seemed to glow with an inner light. Eragon had almost forgotten what it looked like. The sapphire shell almost seemed like it was cut by a jeweller for how smooth its angles. The white veins criss-crossing it were almost distracting in their design, and Eragon suddenly felt like he could stare at them for days.

A sharp stab of pain returned Eragon to awareness, and he suddenly realised that his nails were bloodying his palm. Shrugging as though relieving a great weight, Eragon opened his bag and covered the egg with it before sealing it tight and turning down the corridor.

His heart pumped heavily, and his gait felt awkward as he ran through the passage. He heard boots and the clang of mail ahead of him, and he redoubled his pace. As he rounded a corner, he came face to face with five dwarves, all who immediately held their axes to him threateningly.

"Attacked!" Eragon panted, and let his eyes widen just a little more. "Saw someone... throne room... shadow... Brugh fought him... told me to run!"

The dwarves eyes widened, and one barked orders to the others. Four ran down the corridor in direction of the throne room, and the last stayed behind, his eyes on Eragon but his axe lowered, though he held it tightly. Eragon waited thirty seconds, in which he pantomimed recovering his breath while he listened down the corridor. Then, with magic given speed, he drew his sword and struck out at the dwarf.

The dwarf managed to block just in time, and immediately responded with a heavy swing towards Eragon's torso. Eragon parried it and drove the pommel of his sword into the dwarf's helm. The blow rebounded, but Eragon's current strength was still enough to leave a thick dint, and the dwarf dropped, dazed.

Eragon turned and continued running. Twenty seconds later, Eragon made the last turn and saw the four dwarves he and Brugh had met at the front gate charging towards him, the gate itself wide open. He looked around wildly for a moment, and then, finding a statue with an ornamental axe, grabbed it and let the statue fall with a resounding clang.

The first two dwarves swung at him as they reached him, and Eragon blocked both blows. The hit dug into the metal of Eragon's axe, but it held, and he struck back with both weapons in a deadly arc. The axe sent sparks off their chain mail, but the armour resisted the blow. The second dwarf blocked his sword with his own axe, though his arm trembled to do so.

Then, the other two dwarves entered the fray. Eragon quickly found himself surrounded on all sides, and he had to duck and weave and parry faster than he had in his life to survive. He saw a sudden opening, and he dived through the maelstrom of blades and cut a deep furrow through a dwarf's side. The dwarf stumbled, and Eragon used that as an opportunity to smash his skull with the flat of his axe, and the dwarf dropped.

As Eragon stood again, he felt strangely light. He then cursed as he looked around and realised the dwarves had split the bands on his pack, and both the egg and his cloak were now in a corner amidst ruined leather. He didn't have any more time to think as the dwarves were on him again, and it felt like a lifetime before another opening came up, and Eragon kicked a dwarf into an alcove wall, where he fell silent.

The dwarves eyes widened as Eragon faced them down once more, and they paused in their advance. This was all Eragon needed to suddenly throw both his weapons at them. Neither were at their blade end when they reached their targets, but in the same moment the dwarves blocked Eragon leapt just over their heads, and as he passed he gripped their helms and used his weight to slam their heads into the floor. Neither rose again.

An arrow flicked by Eragon's head, only just diverted by his wards. Eragon looked up and cursed again, and he saw a contingent of dwarves, a full thirty, come down the hall in which he had come. There was a presence in his head, and Eragon felt a weak stab at his mind, but he turned it aside easily. Quickly, grabbed his supplies, sheathing his sword and holding the egg under one arm and the cloak under the other. With that, he charged down the corridor, conserving his magic and using his own strength. A few arrows whizzed past him, and the mental assault was renewed, but he quickly escaped the dwarves, his longer legs allowing a speed they could not match.

It was late at night when Eragon entered the city proper, and thoroughly abandoned. He made it to the Vol Turin, the endless staircase, and he threw himself into the slide that ran alongside it without caution. His speed reached a dangerous level as he continued down the levels, but he tried his best to hold himself inside, and kept magic ready to stop himself if he slid out.

Thankfully, he didn't need to. He soon rolled out onto a deep level, the one where he's stored his supplies. Eragon took a moment to check how much energy the diamond had left, and found it be an incredibly small amount. He would be able to go through one more fight, no more, and then he'd be out, and his still weak body would get him killed.

...And then Eragon felt a stab of magic, and his wards shrugged off an attempt to scry him. Eragon cursed, and charged down the corridor. Down here, there was still chance that he would encounter someone, and he needed his cloak to remain perfect if he was going to get away. So, he moved forward, the defence constantly taxing his reserves as he found the room where he had stored his supplies. Putting down the egg and cloak, he strapped on his spare sword and his bow, and then tied the half full waterskin to his side.

It was then that Eragon heard a sound that made his blood run cold.

A single loud squeak.

Eragon's vision blurred as he turned to stare at the egg. It remained still, unmoving, simple, on the floor. But something had changed.

_No. No no no. No no no no no no NO!_

_Please, not here._

_Not me!_

_**NOT NOW!**_

The hatching had begun, and nothing could stop it now. Eragon was frozen for minutes, unable to move, the egg consuming all thought. But then he heard the heavy pace of drums ring out in the city, and he swore once more and put both egg and cloak under his arm, and then charged out of the room.

His footsteps were heavier, and his gait slower now, but he ran unhindered until he reached the crossroads that led into the lower passages.

"Malithinae!"

Eragon felt a sudden drop in his reserves as his wards covered him, and he turned his head for just a moment before he entered the tunnel.

Brom's eyes, a rage in them Eragon had never seen, glared back at him.

Eragon drew on his magic, scrapping at the last of his stored energy, and gathered strength to his legs. His speed doubled, but the footsteps behind him did not get any quieter. He felt a lance of barbed steel, one of the strongest mental attacks he had ever encountered, ram repeatedly into his mind. Eragon muttered words under his breath, snippets of poems he'd once known, and just managed to withstand the force.

Brom barked spell after spell at him, going through every binding spell Eragon himself knew, but abandoned each when it was apparent Eragon's wards were protecting him. The scrying spell did not wane, but Eragon's gem suddenly ran dry.

The footsteps behind him gained suddenly, and Eragon looked back for just a moment to see Brom only twenty yards behind him.

Panicked, Eragon looked towards the ceiling and drew on the last bit of energy in his body he could spare.

"Thyrsta risa!"

There was quiet for several seconds as Brom gained more rapidly on him, but then, suddenly, his spell caught on just the right hollow within the stone, and there was a rumbling sound as the space of tunnel between them suddenly collapsed.

Eragon put on a final burst of energy to get out of the way just as the tunnel fell into darkness. Instantly, Eragon threw the cloak around himself and dropped all his wards. He swayed heavily, and he was sure if he could see his vision would be blurring, but eventually managed to rise.

He felt dizzy, his thoughts scrambled, but he managed to lean on the side of the tunnel and began to stumble forward, the energy to run or even walk long gone.

As he moved, he felt the slightest sense of triumph.

Then the egg squeaked once more.

Eragon swayed again and cursed silently.

Slowly, he made his way into the black.

* * *

><p>The silence of hours did little to recover Eragon's strength. Though as he progressed, his limbs stopped trembling, and strength found its way back into his thoughts.<p>

Every now and again Eragon would hear noises... tiny and quiet, emanate from the egg, but he ignored it and kept moving.

Then, Eragon felt a bump, a light tap against his side as the egg suddenly shifted, and Eragon quickly branched into a different passage, and then into an old unfinished tunnel.

Eragon felt another heavy bump to his side, and he stopped and placed the egg on the ground, then muttered a spell to fill that caused a roiling ball of sapphire blue light to spring into existence. With that, he collapsed to the floor, feeling drained, and stared at the sight before him.

The egg began to roll about of the floor, changing directions fiercely. Then it stopped, and a loud squeak came from within. Seconds later, it starting rocking faster and faster, and then a jagged crack ran down its side. Then another came at another angle, bisecting it into quarters. And then, with a sudden jerk, the egg split seven separate pieces, and on its remains stood a dragon.

Eragon's muscles would not move. He stared... unable to look away.

The dragon was... just as he remembered. She was no longer than his forearm, her scales a deep sapphire blue, except beneath her belly where they were like a cloudless sky. As he watched, she licked at her wings, peeling off the membrane she had been encased in. Her wings almost seemed too large for her, but at just the moment she spread them wide and fluttered lightly, gaining half a foot before falling to the ground. With that, the little dragoness stood tall and began wandering around the portion of tunnel, her ivory claws creating small scratches in the stone. Her tail wagged behind her as she walked, her gait awkward. She walked up to the wall and prodded it with her nose, but then squeaked in displeasure at its solidity. Still, she sniffed it, and then even gave it a tentative lick, after which she recoiled.

Eragon still did not move.

The dragoness turned and looked around. Her eyes, ice blue in colour, widened at the sight of Eragon's werelight, and she fluttered slightly as if to reach it, but her muscles gave in and she fell back to the ground. She then circled it, like a cat with a ball of yarn, her pupils becoming thin and sharp. As she passed by Eragon in her rotation, he flinched, pulling himself back, and her head snapped around to look at him just as quickly.

Her eyes were still sharp, and she regarded him warily as he looked at her. Slowly, she took a step forward, and Eragon's body moved by itself, pulling him back just as quickly.

The dragoness took a step, then another and another, and soon Eragon found his back pressed against a wall, with no place left to go. She paused then, her head tilting to the side as if to understand what he was. Then, a presence ghosted against his mind, a presence he had never learnt to keep out, brushing aside his defences like they didn't exist. He felt an overpowering curiosity, emanating from somewhere within him, and the mind began to understand his.

The dragoness pulled back on her haunches, as if she was about to leap, and charged him. With nowhere left to go, and no strength left, Eragon mindlessly held out and arm to stop her.

She rammed into him full force, her head filling the cusp of his palm, and then a white hot energy shot through Eragon, burning out his nerves and extinguishing his thoughts.

And then Eragon lapsed into unconsciousness, and knew no more.


	9. Interlude II: Brom

Nothing to note today, so go on little ones, dig in! ...Heh.

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><p>A day after his first scrying, Brom searched for Eragon once more. All he found was darkness. As he was about to cry out in despair, the ripples in the mirror cleared a little more, becoming still, and Brom spotted the faintest hint of light at the corner of the mirror, stretching into the distance.<p>

If that had been there, Eragon could not be dead. He was instead somewhere dark... somewhere where only the faintest hints of light could reach.

So where was that? Had Eragon been captured? By who Brom could not guess, though Eragon had obviously left Palancar valley when Brom last checked, though that left dozens of questions unanswered in itself.

...Had someone discovered Eragon's heritage, and thrown him in a dungeon? That seemed the most likely option, though Brom could not guess how. No human alive remembered how Brom had once looked while young, not even Galbatorix. Of all of the forsworn, only Morzan could have accomplished that feat, and he was long dead. The elves perhaps, but they had no reason to move against him.

...So why? How? The riddle that Eragon had become was the most frustrating Brom had ever encountered.

...The next day when Brom scryed Eragon again and saw nothing, he did not despair. If the light had been cut off, this would be all Brom would see. And so he forced himself to relax, and returned to his duties (currently training lecturing the Varden's men in swordplay while waiting for Ajihad to make a decision about the egg) with a single minded intensity that quickly led him to defeat anyone he duelled in five blows or less, despite some soldier's complaints about fighting an old man.

On the third day, there was still nothing, but on the fourth, he spell showed him Eragon, asleep on the ground. The outline was indistinct, and Brom had to squint his eyes to see, but Eragon's silhouette was visible in the shadows. Again, the ground beneath him was black, but as Brom adjusted his spell to look closer Eragon's form became more distinct. His son had deep shadows under his eyes, and looked thinner than Brom had ever known, but was unharmed. Brom could not see his weapons, more potential proof that he'd been captured. Brom tried pulling back on the spell so it would show him a wider area, but no matter how far he looked he could only see blackness.

Right then, Brom wanted to leave Tronjheim and go search, but he knew he was needed here, and besides, he had no idea where to start looking.

What reason would someone have to imprison Eragon?

And then Brom realised. There _was _reason. If someone... anyone... had passed tale of the egg, and it had gotten to Galbatorix or his servants, the king would act immediately. The villagers of Carvahall were a good sort, perhaps what he had first seen was Eragon on the run with whatever time the villagers could give him. Perhaps he had since been captured.

He never again saw Eragon, no matter how long he held his spell. Perhaps the boy had been, after that day, left in darkness at the bottom of a dungeon. Or perhaps, though Brom feared to think it, whoever was his captor had begun shielding Eragon from his attempts. If Eragon had been brought before Galbatorix... and Brom was horrified to admit it, but the travel time would be just right, the king would ensure such precautions were done. At this point, Galbatorix could be flippant with his energies, and rightly so. The power he held was immense.

A tear fell from Brom's face as he realised this. What horrible fate lay ahead for his son? No matter how much he had tried, the blame rested on him.

_Your fate to fail at all tasks, except one._

Despair ran through him once more... He was trying... He did all he could, planned every contingency he could imagine, but things still turned foul.

How could his luck get any worse?

* * *

><p>That was a question he should not have asked. Brom knew his luck was bad, but this was stretching it a little too far. He'd been halfway to sleep when the alarm went off, and in that instant he woke fully. He spent a minute clothing himself before passing over his sword to grab Zar'roc. Finally he picked up a handheld mirror and sprinted towards Tronjheim's keep.<p>

...He encountered dwarves in the passages as he got near the keep. Brom pulled one aside, who quickly explained the situation, and with the dwarf's permission, he dug the details from the dwarf's mind.

_Distraction, bait, the room was empty (how had they defeated the wards so quickly?), chased, some fought, a face!_

Brom knew that face. Instantly, he retracted his mind and muttered "Draumr kopa" while focusing on the mirror in his hand. The reflection rippled, and then became solid black. Brom cursed, but then was struck with an idea. He released the spell, then said it again, this time scrying the layers of Tronjheim. The mirror cleared, and he saw waves of dwarves scattering in the tunnels. Here and there were shapes of black, but only seven were tall enough to be human, only two the right shape, and only one moving with haste.

Brom immediately turned and made his way towards the Vol Turin. He flew down the stairs, occasionally checking on the mirror. He watched as the figure entered a room, one which was dark to his sight, and did not leave. With the destination in mind, Brom ran with new speed.

_He knew he had recognised the boy, he just didn't know from where. He had been short, just off the full frame of manhood, but perhaps that had been part of the disguise. A man could change his features, the amount depending on his ingenuity, but changing height was impossible. One could not form more bone without spells even he was not privy to. So where had it been?_

_His first thought was Galbatorix. He remembered seeing the man, an age ago at Doru Areaba. Galbatorix had still been a boy then, almost of age, but there had been something in his countenance that had been different. Brom still could not explain it. Still, as he thought of it, it was also missing from the boy he had met. _

_For this he was grateful. It, at the very least, also made sense. Galbatorix was unlikely to ever leave Uru'baen, not unless an army stood at his doorstep. Even for this, probably. Besides, Galbatorix would not have bothered with subterfuge, and would have taken the entire mountain apart on his own. He, most certainly, would have tried to kill Brom when they'd met._

_So who else? One of Galbatorix's men? A champion of the dark king held in retainer? Who else could have broken through the wards he himself had placed with a great store of energy, and still had the strength and skill to duel his way through the guards and win?_

His thoughts were cut off as he noticed the figure leaving the room again. He looked bulkier than before, as if weighed down, but the frame was the same. He immediately ran in the direction of another tunnel, and Brom knew which he was taking, and he knew a shortcut there.

It felt like mere moments later when he saw him in the real world, running like a man pursued by the hounds of hell, the egg in plain sight under his arm. A cold fury washed through Brom, and he barked the first spell he thought of.

"Malithinae!" The boy did not even stumble, though he did look straight at him, his eyes wide and panicked. He put on a new burst of speed, surpassing human limits, and Brom cursed and drew on Aren to match the pace.

As they both entered the tunnel, Brom began a stream of binding spells, but each was deflected by the wards over the boy. He tried stabbing at him with his mind, but a string of words filled his sight, and Brom could not break through.

How to do this? The boy would be a servant of Galbatorix, and undoubtedly have been sworn to him. He needed to take him alive, or kill him so quickly there would be no backlash. If the boy felt threatened enough, he might feel forced to break the egg. Galbatorix may well have set that as a contingency, he would not put it past the madman.

It was then, as he cast the final binding spells he knew, that the boy faltered in his step. Not held as he would have wished, but his pace slowed. _He was running out of energy! _

Then, the boy looked back at him once more, his eyes wide and desperate, and the fingers of one hand pointed towards the ceiling.

"Thyrsta risa!" The voice was hauntingly familiar, though Brom could not place it. There was an ear-splitting _crack, _and the ceiling began to fall. Brom skidded to a halt to avoid the cascade, and the boy looked back at him as he dived out of the way.

Something passed between those eyes, though what Brom did not know. ...Then, the rest of the tunnel collapsed, and Brom saw only darkness before him.

_NO! _

How had it come to this? Brom could tunnel through the stone easily enough, but it would take a great deal of energy and time. There were limits to how much energy a body could channel at any given moment, an amount greatly increased by the bond of a dragon, and it had been that rule Galbatorix himself had broken. If not for that, Brom was assured the man would have been slain before he rose to power. In the time it would take him to tunnel through, the boy would be long gone, and his own body would barely be able to move.

The egg was lost. It would return to Galbatorix, and there would never again be a chance to take it back.

Brom punched the stone before him as hard as he could, and he felt his knuckles crack. Blind to the pain, he then fell to his knees and was silent.

* * *

><p>The aftermath was one of the most morose things Brom had ever had to live through. Though he supposed his mood did not help anything.<p>

He'd moved among the healers, repairing the damage inflicted on the dwarves that had been on guard. It was about then, as he was healing one dwarf who had been bleeding from multiple shallow cuts and an cracked skull, that he can to a confusing revelation.

Not a single guard was dead.

Every single one of them had been knocked out, and only one had received a life threatening injury, but it had been well within the healer's abilities, let alone his.

...Why was it that nothing made sense lately. It was like the world had been driven mad, and only he noticed the change. What thief skilled enough to steal from the dwarves' own stronghold would make his job more difficult by not taking life?

The dwarf who he was healing woke. He tried to sit up, but Brom held him down. He then muttered. "Rggh... did you... did you get the shade?"

Brom froze. _Shade? _What madness was this? He asked a question of the dwarf, who blearily agreed, and Brom entered his mind.

_His name was Brugh of the Ingietum. He had been earlier that day been a guide. A guide to... the boy! _Brom grit his teeth. The fool had led the boy... Evan, the memories said, though Brom did not think for a moment it was his real name, straight into the heart of the dwarves citadel. He almost struck the dwarf, but then his probe encountered something else. _They were going down the stairs to the throne room when he saw it. A shadow in the corridor ahead, tall and moving quickly. They'd stepped forward, and that's when he'd seen the pale skin and crimson hair. The shade saw them then, and attacked with blinding speed. Brugh had drawn his dagger and tried to fend the Shade off, yelling for the boy to go get the guards. _

_The boy had ran, dropping the bottle of wine he'd been holding, which proceeded to roll down the steps loudly. It felt like mere seconds before he was falling to his knees, the Shade has struck him thrice, and every hit seemed to drain the life from him. As he stumbled, the Shade had ran after the boy. His vision had swam then, and he'd stumbled forward blindly, collapsing soon after._

At that point, Brom had extracted himself, his thoughts ablaze.

_The tale was outlandish, but the dwarf had seen it and would tell others so. All the pieces fit up. Had the boy been controlled after that point? Or a willing accomplice? Or had the boy himself been possessed by the Shade, and all his outlandish feats of strength merely an extension of the Shade's power?_

It made perfect sense, except for the fact that the memory was fake.

Oh, it was a good fake, an excellent one at that, and would have held up unless an experienced reader had browsed it. The real memory, whatever it was, was long gone, burned from Brugh's mind with extreme precision. Now, Brom had to wonder _why._

Why would an attacker spare or his victims, despite the difficulty. Why go to the effort to save Brugh the blame from the boy's deception?

The possible answers were few, and Brom yet again wished he could speak to Oromis. His wisdom would be more welcome than ever.

Did the boy, Evan, Brom decided he would call him, at least until he found out his real name, not want to make enemies of the dwarves? Of all the crazy answers, that fit the best. It was a wise idea, Brom knew that well, but if Evan had been under Galbatorix's command, that sentiment would not exist.

Was this boy, perhaps, a third party?

The idea made him want imbibe copious quantities of alcohol for all its insanity, but he could not ignore the possibility.

A third party might wish to retrieve the egg through deception, rather than brute force. A third party might spare all the victims in his path.

This would be the very first opportunity in the boy's lifetime, if his guess was correct, though even then there might never have been one. If the boy was much older than he seemed- something Brom suspected heavily- then he may simply have not ever caught up with Brom or Morzan, back in the first race to retrieve it. After that, the egg had forever been in the protection of the elves, and if Brom had nearly bested him, he would not have stood a chance against _them. _There was the possibility that Evan had been the one to slay them, but he discounted it for the same reason. Besides, Urgals had been involved, and an Urgal that boy was _not. _No amount of magic could hide that, and the Urgals worked with no other but their kind.

Assuming his answer was correct, where did that leave the boy?

He was no elf, nor dwarf or Urgal. He was human, though he was as skilled in magic as any Brom had encountered. The only ones that were proficient to this degree were elves... and the old _riders._

At this point, Brom did indeed stand, and went in search of a cask of ale.


	10. A new beginning

First, I apologise for taking so long to post this. I've had a busy fortnight, and this has been written in the scraps between moments, whatever I could find. Still, it would have been done a week ago... if this chapter wasn't so damn hard. ...I didn't want to screw this one up... it's proven to be ridiculously difficult to write... but it was important, and I still don't know whether I've done well or not. Feel free to flame me once you're done.

...Surprisingly large amount of review this time. Apparently all I need to do is wait two weeks and people will post them... haha... but I have no intention of doing so. I thank everyone who wrote to keep me going.

To those who noticed a small inconsistency in the timeline from the previous chapter, it's not actually so. Eragon assumed Brom had been there for only a day or so when he listened in on the dwarves, but made a mistake. That's how long the rumours had been out. Brom had actually been in the city for several days more.

Apparently people really like the Brom chapters... something I can't really figure out. It's cool, I admit, and I'll see about including him a little more, but I don't get it.

To CunningSlytherin, as I've said before in my chapters, I'd love to reply to you, but I can't. I'll keep trying every time you review, so up to you.

As for now, I'm done with my notes. I hope against everything that the next chapter isn't as hard to write.

Ps. Thanks again guys, and gals, for all your support.

* * *

><p>"<em>Everyone's getting buried in stone these days. Seems like they finally caught on, eh?"<em>

_The statement was so unexpected, Eragon could not help but laugh. "Just great men I think." He ran his fingers over the flawless diamond of Brom's tomb. "Both Ajihad and Brom deserved it." _

_Orik nodded sagely. "That they did, that they did..." His voice wandered off, distracted. Eragon looked back, and then followed his gaze. _

_A great pillar of smoke rose in the distance, but the smell was acrid and heavy on the wind. Days later, Dras-Leona still burned. The Varden had captured the city in a day, but no-one was sure who started the fires. The spiteful defenders, or the eager attackers? Now, none could stop the flames._

_The Varden were already on the move, and Eragon could not help but follow. Every force in Alagaesia was about to clash at a single point... a single point, a mere week away. Uru'baen._

_Eragon didn't protest when Orik's hand found his arm. The dwarf squeezed gently, and Eragon willed himself to relax._

"_You know, when this is all over we'll have to get around to giving you a proper induction, brother. There still be a great many feasts which I am looking forward to." _

"_And a great many pieces of paper to sign," Eragon recalled dryly._

"_Aye, that there is," grinned Orik. "But I think it shall pass from your mind as quickly as the seventh round of ales won't."_

_Eragon laughed soundly this time. He grinned and clasped Orik on the shoulder, and they remained that way for a moment before Eragon returned to look at Brom's tomb._

_At just that moment, the sun came down through the clouds, sending a beam of light over the diamond, which spilled rainbow shards of light everywhere. A sudden western wind rose up, clearing away the smoke of Dras-Leona._

_...In its place, the stink of death rose. Eragon smelt rotting flesh and corpse gas and his mind was filled with images of a mountain made of a hundred-thousand bodies. A splintering crack filled the air, and the tomb before him split in two, the halves leaking blood like a wound._

_A hand grabbed on Eragon's shoulder, cold and oozing. Eragon went to turn and-_

_-Suddenly, a pillar of azure blue surrounded him, drawing him into a cocoon. The blue covered him, shielded him, and he slept quietly once more._

* * *

><p>The presence never left, even when Eragon woke. A soft blue light illuminated the gloom.<p>

Eragon found himself on his back, a soft weight pressing against his chest. The werelight above stung his eyes... but at the same time, he enjoyed it. _What was it? _Wait, he knew what it was, merely an orb of magic-infused light. _What was that? _What was what? Magic? He examined his thoughts, trying to understand the confusion.

_A presence._

Eragon flinched and instantly walled of his mind, forcing the _other _out. The confusion in his head cleared, but then Eragon felt coldness in his limbs. A hand grasped his shoulder, freezing and rotten, and Eragon jerked away from it. The weight on his chest vanished as he ran to the opposite wall and turned to face;

...nothing.

He took a deep breath, trying to slow his breathing, but the panic remained. For a minute, maybe longer, all he could do was stare at the blank wall, memories overlapping his vision.

"_Snnkkt... haha... you think you've won? You think you've WON?"_

Eragon took a step back, stumbled, and fell onto his rear, his eyes wide. His shields dropped, and instantly he felt the presence touch his mind again. It brushed against his mind, soft and soothing, blocking out his pains. It drew his attention to it, its soft embrace, and he felt himself relaxing.

Something nudged his boot then, so lightly he could barely feel it. Eragon looked down, and once again saw the dragon.

Again, she nudged his boot, and then she looked up at him. Something in her eyes he could not identify. She stood at that point, not moving, not even sitting, as if waiting for something.

_Presence._

It was too familiar, almost painful. It would have been, but it... she... was blocking it out. He could feel her thoughts, an entity just beyond his mind if he dared to reach, burning away his hurts in a way she didn't even understand, just merely knew that something was hurting him, so she would do what she could. This time, Eragon did not block her out, merely... relaxed into it, against his will, but his will was not all his own.

A rider was never alone.

Eragon felt the ghost of an ache in his palm then, and he turned it up to find what he expected, a Gedwey Ignasia.

The palm let off silver light as he continued to channel energy into the werelight unconsciousness had somehow not let fade. He clenched his palm into a fist, and then back, feeling it tingle and itch. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the little dragoness stretch her neck to try to examine it too, but she could not reach and refused to shift her place.

His thoughts turned to her then, her blue eyes that bore into his as he looked, and the heat in his palm.

"Little dragon..." he whispered. "...what have you done?"

Her head leant to the side, she not understanding his words. She reached gingerly with her thoughts, but even that did not help her, and Eragon knew she was too young to understand.

But looking at her, at all that was so familiar, he felt himself calm all the same.

Eragon reached out for her, for the little dragon, with his shining palm. She looked at him, eyes wide, but did not approach. He reached out with his thoughts then, and felt reluctance.

_She would not approach. Twice he had turned her away. She would not have a third. If he wanted her, wanted her as she wanted him... he would have to come to her this time._

Eragon's eyes softened. He leant forward, ignoring the parts within him screaming to stop... howling that this would only lead to pain and loss, and moved to his knees. The dragon's eyes widened, but she did not shift from her spot. He could feel her body aching to move forward, to abandon all fear and embrace him, but she held her place, _waiting._

And then, he placed his palm on her head. It felt tiny under his fingers, yet firm, and he stroked it gently. She leaned into his touch like a cat, and he felt warmth spill through their newly formed link.

Eragon smiled. The sensation felt foreign, and then he realised that was because it _was. _He hadn't felt happy since he had returned to this time. Not once, not even before, ever since...

Not once had he felt joy, and now it overflowed.

The dragoness chirped happily, and Eragon scooped her up in his arms and drew her against his chest, against his _heart. _Her body felt warm and damp, almost hot, but even as she gripped his tunic, stinging his chest with her claws, he gripped her all the tighter.

But the memories came again, and this time, Eragon knew he must release them. And so, he drew his strength and shakily spoke. "...This is not meant to be... I... I've tried my best. Tried to keep you safe... away from the suffering of this land. ...Perhaps that was all a delusion." Eragon shook his head sadly. "I couldn't let go... you couldn't understand but... I just... ...I know now... I couldn't let anyone have you. ...Not... not even me."

"...Especially... especially not me. ...I've wanted no replacement. How could I?" Eragon looked at the little dragoness the snuggled against his chest. He could feel her listening, but she did not understand. Eragon knew... but he still spoke. He knew, at least once, he had to say this.

"...How could I replace Her? There can't be another Her... not even you could be." He felt tears dripping down his cheeks, but he shakily continued. "...I ...I think I knew that from the beginning. I was just running away."

"You weren't meant to hatch for me. I'm a broken man, a broken rider. I know that... that I'll probably never let go." He stroked her again, his words so soft they were almost silent. "You deserve better than that."

He felt her touch in his thoughts again, and once more he felt his pain leaking away.

_She did not understand his pain. _

_...But she did not care._

The little dragoness knew only one thing in this world. Just one.

_He was hers. Nothing else mattered. Not to her._

Eragon let out a muffled cry, and he stroked her once more.

"You may decide against that, little dragon. But... until that time comes... I will protect you."

He looked her in the eyes then, and tenderly embraced her with both mind and body. _"Until then... unflinchingly, unceasingly, this I swear, I am yours."_

She nuzzled into his neck, her talons tightened on his tunic, and a faint sound split the gloom.

She began humming.

* * *

><p>Moving again felt like a dream. He could barely remember standing, walking, running... All his attention was on the being nestled within his arms. When she had finally withdrawn from his mind, a tendril of thought all that remained to connect them, she had quickly fallen to sleep. Something within their encounter had exhausted her, and Eragon suspected he knew what. He didn't even know <em>how <em>a being was supposed to control thoughts like that, bonded or no. Healing... that was all Eragon could truly call it, had sapped her of her strength.

Now, she slept soundlessly, not even a low chirp to show that she was dreaming, as he had once known... _Her... _to do. A dark puff of smoke rose from her nostrils periodically, her breaths long and slow. Still, she felt very warm under his touch, and the heat helped him persist in the cold tunnels.

He did not sprint any longer. His pace was a little above a brisk walk. He had lost much of his desperately fought for lead, and he needed to regain what he could... or at least slow the loss of what was left. His body had smoothed out much in the past month, becoming sharp and lithe from the constant rushed travel, but he could not hope to match the pace of a runner-of-the-tunnels, shorter legs or no. His energy was too spent, for one, and now he had a precious cargo he refused to disturb, even if being caught now would undo all his effort.

...No, being caught now, he and the dragon subjected to the Varden would begin the undoing of all he had returned for.

His muscles burned, feeling like hot lead between his strides, but he pushed on. He needed to outstrip whatever blockades would be lain down. He knew that more than likely the _thieving _was known throughout the Beor Mountains. Perhaps even as far as Surda. The dwarves were clever like that, and this was tidings of the greatest ill for them. If Eragon encountered any dwarves at all in the coming days, they would likely be a full squadron, protected by a mage. Eragon knew if he encountered one there was no chance of victory. Even worse, once he made it out of the tunnels he would be subjected the intricate network of hidden towers throughout the mountains. He would be spotted easily, and he could not hold a cloaking spell for days on end.

At a distance, he could hide the dragon's form beneath his cloak, but a close view would give it away. They would see the absence of the egg, and a solid bump against his outline would reveal it all.

He felt movement against his chest, and the dragoness shifted in his arms. He could sense her reacting to his worry, and he forced himself to relax.

She stilled quickly, her sleep silent once more. Eragon continued moving for another half mile before, at which point he tripped. He caught his balance quickly, but then decided to take the moment to rest, and he sat at the side of the tunnel and began to eat what jerky he had left. He'd saved a little, knowing he'd have no source of food later. He'd had other supplies, but they had been lost alongside his broken pack. Without them he was going to starve... again.

Eragon sighed. His luck truly was abysmal.

But then he felt the dragoness shift in his arms, and he imagined that if they'd been in the light her scales would be sending beams of sapphire everywhere, gorgeous even in rest.

And... he decided... perhaps it wasn't.

His hands wandered over the ridges on her back, not yet sharp enough to cut, and he had to stop himself getting distracted.

There were still threats... worries. For one, he could not afford a second encounter with Brom. Not at his current strength, perhaps not ever. If Brom had tried, he could have crushed Eragon with the power from Aren. He would not make the same mistake twice.

As if on cue, Eragon felt a sudden drop in his energy as his wards deflected a scrying attempt. This had been the third so far, as far as he could measure anyway. He drew the cloak around him and the young dragoness, pulling it low over his face, and let his wards drop.

The energy drain faded immediately, but Eragon still did not move. It was pitch black in the tunnels, and he likely could not have been seen in the first place, but he saw no reason to take chances right now. He relaxed further, letting himself drift to the edge of sleep, save for occasionally raising his wards again to check whether the spell was still running. Like the times before, the caster did not let up for over an hour. Eragon assumed it had been Brom scrying him, and this would be a frustrating expense on the man's reserves. Brom had to have known that the _thief _had been low on energy, so the constant failures would mystify him. Especially considering how _much _energy it took to hold the protection for an extended time.

Had Eragon not had the cloak, his energy would have run dry long ago. It likely wouldn't have mattered in the dark, but there were ways to overcome that restriction, though Eragon didn't know whether Brom knew them.

After what Eragon guessed to be two hours, he raised his wards again to find the drain gone. Brom would have given up yet again. There might yet be another attempt, perhaps several, but Eragon guessed they might be a day or more away, when the man could assume the _thief _had escaped the tunnels. It was quite possible, Eragon mused, that there was a scrying being performed on a larger scale on the mountains themselves, designed to locate holes in their vision. There would surely be one or two dwarf mages who had explored well enough to see the lower areas in full, or perhaps with their efforts combined. Honestly, Eragon had no idea how he was going to escape if that was the case. He never intended for anyone to see his passage out. If Brom hadn't caught up with him, he could have made a pass through quickly enough for watchers to not react appropriately, or at the least he'd have enough energy to deceive them. He'd also never intended to have to hide a dragon-shaped lump in his cloak. Combined, he was well and truly trapped. He'd have to bypass the mountains in their entirety to escape their vision.

...Bypass them entirely... perhaps he could!

Adrenaline rushed through his body as he considered it. Yes, there was a way! It would be tricky, and dangerous, but possible. It would take him days to gather the required energy... but then...

His pace quickened. At the very least, he still had to evade his pursuers until then.

* * *

><p>The dragoness slept for a whole day. Eragon would have been worried, but when he touched her mind he felt her exhaustion, and he was content to let her rest. On the second day, he finally felt movement in his arms, and a touch ghosted across his thoughts.<p>

At this, Eragon stopped and called up a werelight. He was greeted with the vision of the dragon blinking cutely as she examined the globe.

_Good morning, little one._

She turned instantly, hackles raised, as if she'd completely forgotten that he was there, let alone in his arms. He grinned, and stroked the length of her spine. She melted under his touch, and snuggled into his warmth once more. Eragon smiled then, and continued his ministrations.

They were only there for minutes, but the moment felt like hours as they sank into each-others presence. When she regained her awareness he felt her touch his thoughts, searching once more for his hurts. He distracted her with an image- that of the great outside, forest and sky- and took the moment to bury them deep. He had control of them, for now. Eragon realised then that he would have great task ahead.

He would have to search his memories, and one by one hide them away. As she grew older and retained her thoughts better, it would become a necessity. There were things in his past that... that she could not know. Not yet.

Perhaps not ever. For both her sake and his.

The dragoness chirped eagerly at his image, and he saw a faint memory flash in her mind, like a forgotten dream. She saw a dragon soaring on the wind. Higher and higher till it almost left sight completely.

_So the ancestral memories were coming already? _Eragon mused. It had been one of the details he had missed out on when he was first a rider. He had been unused to the contact then, so he was not surprised he did not notice. All animals, even humans, retained things from their parents. They were undetectable in most, called instincts and let be. Dragons, and some other magical creatures, had a much stronger expression of the ability. Part of the reason... _Saphira... _had been such an excellent flyer was because she had inherited the trait from her mother... who inherited it in turn as well. _She _had occasionally displayed it in other ways, far and few between. He vaguely recalled _Her_ panic after Garrow's farm had been attacked by the Ra'zac, where she had said things that even she did not understand until much later. The whole thing was, unfortunately, a piece of dragonlore that had never been shared with him.

Through his travels, Eragon had begun to suspect that the ability was linked to the rider's use of the ancient language before they even knew a single word of it. Eragon, personally, had used _brisingr, _though he had heard it once before from Brom. But how had he known what it was? Or how to use it then? A fledgling rider's use of magic had taught even the elves a few words they had not known.

For example, _explode _had not been in their vocabulary until four hundred years ago. That particular test fell out of the rider's use just as quickly.

A mental prod pulled Eragon out of his thoughts, and the dragoness demanded another picture. Eragon presented the image of the Beors from dragonback, though he removed the dragon from the image.

_There. _He said. He then showed an image of tunnels underneath the earth. _We are there._

It took several tries, and he quickly remembered to present his thoughts in a different manner, like how he recalled Glaedr doing, but she soon grasped the message's meaning. He rewarded her with another soft pat, and then presented the image of Tronjheim. This one took longer, as he had to present a series of connected pictures to explain it in detail.

_Come from there. _

This meaning took longer still. He eventually resorted to showing her how Tronjheim connected to tunnels, and showing himself walking into the darkness. After a moment she understood, though she couldn't say which place he had come from. Was it the mess hall? Or was it the keep? And what were those things that moved around?

Eragon was about to reply when he suddenly felt an overpowering hunger, and the she-dragon's stomach growled pitifully.

It suddenly occurred to Eragon that she had not eaten at all since her hatching, and he berated himself. He reached into his pocket and found the remains of her egg. They were still moist on one side, and the largest parts were still gooey, but Eragon had known he could not afford to leave a single piece of evidence behind. It had not been comfortable travelling with them, but now they would serve a different purpose.

Her nose wrinkled when he presented a larger piece, still covered in the goo. He sent a feeling of hunger, then of satisfaction, but she rebuked him. When he moved it closer she retreated, running up his arm to hide behind his head. Her claws left scratches all over, but he ignored it and retrieved the squirming dragoness. She squealed at him, and struggled in his grasp, but her legs were not strong enough to pull her away.

Eragon rolled his eyes and chuckled. He dipped a finger into the goo and presented it to her, but her nostrils closed and her neck moved back as far as it was able. Eragon laughed again and prodded her in the nose, and she wailed as the ooze dripped down her face. She shook her head, akin to a dog, and the goo was flung away.

Eragon re-dipped his finger and did it again. She merely glared at him this time, her thoughts vehement. As his finger approached for the third time, her eyes narrowed and she bit the finger as hard as she could.

Her jaws drew blood, but he didn't let the pain transfer over. He then waited as she continued to sink her teeth in. They waited there for several moments, but Eragon did not make an attempt to escape, so she did not relent.

About a minute later, she released him and looked back at the finger curiously, as if contemplating it. Gingerly, she reached out gave it a slow lick. Goo and blood came off it, and she chewed on her prize slowly. She eventually swallowed and chirped for more.

Eragon laughed then, and collected some more. He quickly learnt that she refused to eat from the shell itself, but was content to lap up all that he hand-fed her, even after the tiny punctures had healed up.

He was somewhat pleased with that. Though not all preferred to, the yolk of a dragon's egg was their best first meal. Some dragons even _encouraged _their young to eat the shell as well.

Though its benefits may exist, Eragon could not be sure on that regard, he was hardly that cruel.

Soon enough, he had wiped the shell clean, and he frowned when she chirped at him expectedly. He dug into his other pocket for what remained of the jerky, and tore a piece into shreds. She fed on that more readily, and Eragon winced as he watched his food disappear, but the contented sound she made when she curled up against him again, belly bursting, made it worth it.

Her thoughts were fuzzy and she stared unshifting into the darkness as he extinguished the werelight. She yawned, but did not fall asleep again. Even though the dark was as black and heavy as coal, she kept whatever vigil she could, her eyes seeing more than his human ones could, even if it was only a little. He continued down the tunnel with renewed vigour, occasionally presenting images to her, which he would explain once she had seen it enough to become curious.

It was in these lessons that he began to speak to her in the ancient language, as well as with his mind. He doubted her ability to learn the former as of yet, but he knew that he had to start somewhere.

Perhaps she would surprise him. _After all, _he mused, his fingers tracing the outlines of her scales, _she had done it before._

* * *

><p>The sun was blinding as Eragon stepped into the light. He had seen light at the end of the tunnel (he laughed at the pun) nearly half an hour ago, but it felt like a mere minutes to approach. The dragoness had been bombarding him with questions ever since she saw it, and he answered each in turn. She was learning quickly, and he could swear that she had grown an inch in the last day alone. In that day, she'd also claimed a spot on his shoulder, her claws rigid on his tunic and her tail on his neck for balance. It was a precarious position, and Eragon had to save her from falling more than once, but she refused to move unless it was to the other shoulder, or into his arms... and quite frankly, they were <em>tired.<em>

Still, he welcomed it. She hummed when left there for a time, a pleasant trilling melody that sent his heart beating hard. She was also just so _happy _that Eragon found it hard not to smile, and his worries lessened as hope filled his mind.

She was even happier now. The sun (she had not believed him at first when he explained it) warmed her limbs, and she fluttered her wings as if to fly, but she did not move from her spot, and Eragon felt a sense of _worry _from her as she looked into the sky.

He patted her absently, his thoughts elsewhere. He still had at least a day before he had the energy for the spell. And that might be being generous. Hunger had drained him more than he had expected. He clutched the iron pendant absently, his knuckles white.

Now that they were out of the tunnel, the mountain surrounded them from every direction. He recognised at least one spire he knew to contain a watch post, even if he couldn't actually find it with his eyes. Thankfully, it wasn't angled in his direction, instead made to cover the mountain pass that led towards Tarnag, but there were a dozens of others he did not know the location of. It was quite possible that he was already being watched, and though he doubted they had spotted him yet, it was only a matter of time.

...So how to do this? He had to hunt to recover his energy, and hunting would attract eyes like flies to honey.

The dragoness chirped, and Eragon quickly requested her silence. She thought for a moment, then sent back a vague sense of agreement, followed by a question.

_Danger. _Threat, worry, pain.

Her grip on him tightened, and she froze, her eyes darting.

_Don't worry. I'll protect you._

The dragon's mind quieted, though her grasp did not relax. He sent her a calming image, but she ignored it and instead sent a worrying one to him.

_...Don't worry... I'm ok. We'll be fine... I just need to think..._

How could he get more energy?

And then the answer hit him, and he cursed himself for not realising it sooner. He'd been a parasite on the land on the way to Tronjheim, what was stopping him now?

_It feels different now._

And it did. For the first time in years, he had respect for life, and a desire to preserve it. Not one of familiarity, or of duty, but a want, a _need. _And as he ran a hand over the dragoness's scales, he knew what.

_But... _He told himself. _His need to protect her was greater than that respect._

The slow death of the first life stung more than he expected, but he did not relent. There was only grass around the tunnel opening, and with each step Eragon took more life, gathering more and more into the diamond. He only stopped when his limbs shook and his mind faltered under the weight of a thousand murders.

The dragon tried to enter his mind to block out the suffering, but he blocked her. He stood, his eyes on the trail of death behind him... and after a moment he forced it from his mind.

_It's... for the greater good._

The dead earth, a patch about twenty feet wide and just as long, would be a beacon from which all could see. He, they, could spare no more time here. Wasting no time, he gathering up the energy and hugged the dragoness tight, wrapping his consciousness around hers...

...and vanished in a blast of blue flames.

* * *

><p>One could compare the sensation to being squeezed through a block of pumice. Eragon managed to hold his shields over the dragon's consciousness until they arrived, but one there they blew apart like a farm door to a battering ram.<p>

His vision span before his eyes and he fell to the ground and emptied his stomach, mucking the sand with spots of blood.

_Never... again. _He felt a worried tug on his mind, and he felt the dragoness trying to reach him, but his thoughts felt sluggish and he did not respond. His body sagged, and he felt lost, and tired. _So tired._ In the back of his mind, he felt the energy stored within the diamond wink out, the spell having drained him more than expected. He tried to move, but could not manage it, and stared blankly at the ground.

Then, a great wave of _blue _surged into his mind, and he felt his mind sharpen and his strength return.

The little dragoness prodded him with her nose tiredly, and as he turned to look at her she yawned visibly, her energy suddenly spent. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, which he then cleaned on the sand, he picked up his _little one _as she slipped once more into an exhausted slumber.

Again, she'd done something without knowing what to do. She'd given him some of her energy while also recovering his mind from its stupor. How she kept managing it Eragon wasn't sure. But he was thankful as he cradled her in his arms and raised his head to examine where he'd landed.

To one side, he viewed the great expanse of the Hadarac desert. To the other, the Beor mountains stretched into the distance. He'd landed on the borders of the sand, where grass had left but shrubs were still common. He reached within himself and after spending a moment examining the young dragon he turned his attention to his body.

The feeble examination revealed little, but for that he was thankful. He hadn't expected the spell to ravage his body like it had. He didn't know the details, only faint guesses, but he could now understand why the spell was never used to transport people. Of course, there was the energy requirement only a rider or perhaps an elf could hope to meet, but amongst those surely it had been tried before. The mind simply wasn't capable of withstanding the strain of being so harshly moved, and for some reason it was reflected upon the body. Why that strain existed was what Eragon could only guess at, and none of his answers were satisfying.

At least, his efforts to protect her had not failed. He'd worried that the spell would cause some kind of backlash, but he hadn't known what.

Now, again, he was out of energy though. The dragoness had restored a little of his strength, but not much, enough to keep moving. Once again, he,_ they_, were defenceless.

Eragon sighed. It seemed to be a theme. One he was determined to break. And now, with nothing else to chase, he could. All he had to do now was lose his pursuers... and in the Hadarac Desert, that would be all too easy.

Against it all, Eragon smiled and trudged his way into the sand.

* * *

><p>The little dragon slept longer this time, her tiny body recovering from whatever she had done. The scrying attempts continued, but each time he drew her into the cloak and counted on it to protect them. He hoped, simply, that whoever was scrying had not seen this part of the Hadarac desert, but it was an unfounded worry. The Hadarac desert was <em>huge, <em>and only a few passed through it anyway. One hundred years ago, it had been a main thoroughfare for those who could fly, riders and dragons both. There had even been landmarks set to help them keep their way. Now those were all lost, long covered over by the dunes.

Eragon's body felt overly heavy as he made his way into the sand, his destination a hazy form on the horizon. He stopped only to drink, something he did every other hour, expending all his recovered strength in the effort. He was glad it was still on the bridge of spring, for he was sure that he couldn't have made the trip as he was any later in the season. Sweat dripped from him with every step. He managed to distract himself from the heat by chewing on plants he had pulled up. They were few, lone sentinels out on the dry earth, but their roots were nourishing.

On the third day, a distant shape finally solidified. By late afternoon, he stood in the cool shade of the only mountains in central Alageasia.

_Du fells Nangoroth._ They held up to their names. Eragon had never seen them up close before, but though he'd snatched memories from those who had, seeing it himself was different. The spires were jagged at every turn, seemingly missing large chunks here and there. Huge strips of stone had been charred black, an aged remnant of dragonfire.

This was where the dragons had stored their eggs, and their Eldunari, back in the old days. When the land had heated and the desert formed, they left it in favour of regions that still held water. A few had remained, and it had been one of the old places the riders had fled to in the fall. Unfortunately, it was one of the places where Galbatorix himself had hunted them. The mad king had been sure to erase every last remnant.

Now, it was old, and forgotten by all but the elves. Even if they may have visited once, they did no longer. It was a hurtful reminder to all who opposed the king.

And it was the one place Eragon was sure they could vanish in.

As if on cue, he felt the dragon stir in his arms. Her thoughts seemed to explode into existence as she woke, and she immediately examined the world with all the curiosity of a toddler. She questioned the warm air, she questioned to absence of the sun, but before Eragon could answer either she caught sight of the huge mountain before them and went very quiet.

_Big, isn't it? Someday, I'll show you the Beor mountains in full, and you'll feel even smaller._

She snapped at that, her attention on him. She scurried up his shirt, her claws unceremoniously tearing the fabric as she climbed to his shoulder.

"Don't like being called small, _little one?" _Eragon said in both voice and mind.

The dragoness bit his ear, though not hard enough to draw blood. Eragon laughed, and then she was suddenly forced to concentrate on holding on as he resumed walking.

_This will be our home. _Eragon gestured to the mountains. _It will be safe... and I'll bet you'll love it too._

_Home. _She did not understand that meaning. He attempted to describe it to her, but it escaped her for now. Still, he was surprised. She was less than a week old, but coming along much better than he expected. He thought her extended sleep would have at least put her back, but she had progressed beyond instead.

Though, her exertions had taken a toll on her growth. She had grown only a few inches, when he remembered _Saphira _doubling in size in the same time. He had no answers to that. The texts on the original spell used to bind elves and dragons had been a subject of his scepticism. He'd seen nothing to explain some of the quirks he had seen in the magic. Perhaps that was attributed to dragon magic and their own nature, but Eragon suspected there had been pieces left out in the explanation. He'd never found out what.

She hadn't been fed as much as either of them would like, but that didn't explain _this. _

The dragoness prodded his consciousness, and he retreated from his thoughts. Against his expectations, she wasn't hungry yet, and instead insisted on more of the images he had shown her before.

He acquiesced happily, and her attention was entirely distracted up until a sudden darkness covered her eyes. She looked around, and at the same moment Eragon created a werelight.

A cave was swiftly revealed, long and deep. Large grooves had been worn into the stone in the form of set of three parallel lines, and a large circular depression marked the cave as once belonging to a dragon. They both looked behind, and the dragoness saw the rise of a small hill leading out, quickly covered by sand.

"I know it's a little... well, _big _for one as small as you, but I'm sure you'll get used to it."

This time she bit his neck, but her mouth was too small to get a proper grip and Eragon just laughed. He could sense her scowling at him, and he laughed harder at her mercurial mood.

Just as she was about to do something drastic, he plucked her from his shoulders and pulled her into his lap, where she just as quickly silenced.

_It's time you meet the real me. _Eragon focused hard, reaching into his magic, and then muttered a spell. His skin itched as he felt his bones shift, and when the spell ended he was wearing his own face once more.

Surprisingly, she didn't seem the slightest bit surprised. In fact, she seemed cheered, like she'd known all along. The moment the spell finished she pounced on him and licked his cheek gently.

"My name is Eragon," he said softly. "Pleased to meet you."

She chirped happily at this, and her tail flicked absently as she tried to figure out a response.

_I suppose you need a name then." _Eragon mused... though he'd known that for days. He'd been putting it off, but he could do so no longer. Shrugging off his memories, he dug through his thoughts, trying to remember names of dragons of similar stature, in addition to a few ideas of his own. "_How is... Aedrae?"_

The dragoness gave him a fierce _no. _Eragon shrugged and dug up another. He honestly hadn't expected her to take the first he came up with. He drew up an image of the star sapphire in Tronjheim, and said '_Isidar.'_

Again, she firmly refused, prodding his thoughts as if to find the answer herself.

_Loivissa. _He attached an image, confident in this one. It was his favourite of all that he had come up with.

The dragon wailed in protest, and pressed against his thoughts more firmly.

Eragon frowned and began trying everything else he could think of, even a few names he remembered belonging to males, though they were ambiguous themselves, but she refused them all.

_Opheila? _Refusal. _Lenora? _She tightened her grasp on his shirt, tearing it further.

"I have no others... unless you want me to start naming you stick or twig. I suppose I could also call you _small._

She let out an angry sound then, her best impression of a growl. And at that moment, he caught a snatch of thought, deep within her. He followed it, and found something he dreaded.

_She knew exactly what she would be called. It was there, buried deep in memories... dreams, but she knew it. She just didn't know the words. It had been given to her by another- _Eragon felt warmth and light and _love- and she would accept no other._

Though already seated, his body sagged against the wall of the cave. The she-dragon held on tightly, wailing her displeasure as she clawed his thoughts looking for what he was hiding from her. He deflected her absently, and she went suddenly silent. With a flutter of her wings, she landed on the floor, her back to him but her eyes looking back, sadness within their depths.

Eragon sighed, and he reached out and scooped her into his arms. She struggled for a moment, but he touched her with his mind and she relaxed.

_It's nice to meet you... Saphira._

There was a sudden rush of thought, and she pulled herself against his body as tight as she could.

He hugged her tight, tears running silently down his cheeks.


	11. Where the heart is: Part I

_Aedrae_- Ancient language for _rain_. _Isidar_- Dwarven for _sapphire._

Sorry I'm late guys, A week to post feels too long, maybe it's me, but I'm trying to be faster than that. Okay, on to some notes.

...With the oncoming series finale, I ought to just state outright the things I think will happen in book 4, just so I can say _I called it_. For example, the menoa tree. He promised her _anything. _In the **ancient language** of all things_. _She could quite easily make him do whatever she wanted, like... well, I probably shouldn't ruin that surprise. Of course, this is all without considering whatever she implanted/changed in him. Don't tell me you missed that... though I don't know if it was physical or magical or _both._

CP puts solid hints here and there, he's like me in that regard. It's all about noticing and digging. For example, I called the thing about Brom's parentage. Though I think a lot of people did so it's not very surprising. There are better ones though, for example, on the nature of _kuthian._ Though I shan't leak all my opinions here, and that is hardly my last. I'll happily discuss them with anyone who is interested though. Ask in review or private message and I shall reply. ...Perhaps I should set up a thread for it or something...

Anyway, this is, as you probably guessed from the title, part one of a larger chapter. I felt it best to separate them, partly because of their length, partly cause of a certain theme involved. So, on that note, feel free to wait a little bit if you want to read it properly, the next one shouldn't be far off. Up to you. For now, I hope you like baby Saphira.

* * *

><p><em>The light is so bright, so strong, that it burns. He tries to turn away from it, but it encompasses him, from every direction, growing hotter still. His flesh begins to sizzle, but then he is shrouded by blue wings. He can feel Saphira's body covering him, and he feels <strong>agony <strong>through their link, but she does her best to form words._

_Live, Eragon..._

_And then the light breaks through, so white it blinds him, and he feels no more._

* * *

><p>The first time around, he had not had much time to play with his young dragon. With his second, he had all the time in the world, and he was determined not to miss a second.<p>

When he woke and found her snoring on his chest, slightly on her side with her wings splayed as wide as she could reach, he took no note of it. Sleeping arrangements had been difficult. They had only cold rock to lay on, and while that was not too much trouble for her, though she might not prefer it, as he knew dragons made a proper nest of soft things when they had the option, for him it was annoying in its entirety. However, he was so horribly sleep deprived that he may have been unconscious before his head hit the ground. It made sense that she might move closer during the night, as dragons also liked warmth, even considering the lingering heat of the desert breeze, and he knew he would be a softer alternative as well.

But when he sat up, lightly holding her to his chest, and she did not shift, he got a little suspicious. His little Saphira, it seemed, was a determined sleeper. ...Or faker. When he stood and she did not move at all save for a slight tightening of her muscles, he was sure.

Grinning, he walked to the entrance of the cave. The mountains of Du fells Nangoroth were riddled with caves and passages. Some small, some large and deep. One, Eragon did not know which, led deep under the mountain, to a safe hold where dragons had kept the only things precious to them, an age ago. Eragon had chosen a cave that had a good view of the desert from its mouth. He expected to move them to a better concealed location soon, and then explain to Saphira _why, _but for now it would do. From the mouth there was a five foot drop into the sand, and Eragon took the leap easily.

Upon realising they were falling, Saphira's grip tightened, her wings flaring as she squealed. Even after Eragon landed easily, his legs sliding into the dunes past his ankles, her breaths remained rapid, and her eyes were thin as her head darted in every direction.

The corner of Eragon's mouth twitched, and then he laughed long and hard. And then... realising she'd been tricked, the little dragon turned in his grip until she found exposed skin, and bit him.

Her teeth were sharp, true, but Eragon just found it amusing. She huffed, but soon quieted and snuggled into his arms once more.

_Wake up you... you can't sleep all day._

Eragon heard a growl in his head, as if she was determined prove him otherwise. In response, he began loosening his grip, until Saphira realised her predicament and tightened hers. She hung to his clothing like cat on a tree, eventually squealing again as she climbed up to his shoulder, and bit him on the ear.

That one stung, and she felt it through the link, and her jaws loosened. Eragon smiled at that, and scratched her neck.

_Now, I'm going to show you a little about hunting. _

He felt her lean her head slightly, as if not understanding him. Eragon backtracked, collecting his bow. After rechecking his wards- internally pleased that no-one had attempted to scry them in the last day- he put on his cloak- Saphira easily readjusted, and her tail wrapped around his neck to balance again- he took them out into the desert.

Even though it was early morning, and still in a cool season, the heat was scorching. He was glad for his cloak, that while it didn't protect against rain, it was perfect for shade. He didn't want to end up burnt as a tree in a forest fire. Saphira, by comparison, loved the temperature. Her wings were fanned out to absorb of much of it as she could, and her enthusiasm while doing so was almost _bubbly. _The position made her balance even more precarious, but she managed to hold on. As for Eragon, it was a weight he was rapidly becoming accustomed to, though he occasionally asked her to switch shoulders.

Early in the trip Eragon a cracked area of the sand, and he used the opportunity to remove one of the large solidified tiles of sand and cast a spell to draw water from the earth. It was taxing, but not as much as he expected it would be, and he wondered if he was growing stronger. Certainly, his powers had grown from when he had fought the Urgals, but they had been so very weak then.

Saphira's eyes sparked with wonder as she watched the little hole fill. After Eragon had drunk his fill, he let her to the ground to examine it. She sniffed it warily at first, her mind not making the connection to the holes filled with liquid he had once made in the darkness underneath the Beor Mountains. After a moment, she took a gulp of it, and then another. Once she felt she had drunk enough, she jumped into it like a toddler would a puddle. The water splashed here and there, scores of droplets sizzling on the sand. She looked almost depressed when it was all gone, and Eragon had to firmly remind himself that he didn't have the energy to spare right now to draw up more.

As they travelled further into the desert they began to see all kinds of creatures. He felt Saphira salivating at all the delicious scents, and he began to explain them to her. Most were lizards, smaller ones, and then the larger monitors. Occasionally they saw snakes, and each time Eragon sent her a feeling of danger. He was not sure of her ability to understand a concept such as _poison _yet, so he instead assured her of the death they were capable of, and she quickly began to shy away whenever they came close to one. He did the same for the scorpions, though they were much less few. He occasionally pointed out birds- Saphira's attention was focused on the ground- and told her of them. He told of her falcons and hawks, and occasionally vultures, even though they were more common. When he told her that they were hard to catch, nearly impossible for him, but maybe even _easy _for her, she didn't believe him.

For a moment, Eragon wondered why, and then he found it in her mind. There was something in her head, a profound belief that he was able to do anything. She believed it without a doubt, her faith in him absolute. It was a daunting thought...

Regardless, he put it aside and continued explaining the creatures of the sky. He explained _prey _and _predator, _this was a concept she understood readily. He told her that she was _predator, _more so than the snake or the falcon, though not yet, as she was still rather small.

She bit him again, but there was no malice in it this time.

As Eragon raised water for the third time, the sun directly overhead, a monitor lizard scurried towards them. The lizard paid little heed to Eragon, and gulped heavily at the water he had raised. Rather than feeling annoyed, the rider felt bemusement run through him.

Twenty seconds later, as if the lizard had just become aware of him, it raised its head to stare at him, ignoring the young dragon. Eragon stared back, and he noticed some things. The lizard's eyes were grey, covered with film. It was two metres long, and its scales were strangely light, a washed out brown. There were the faintest creases on what Eragon recognised to be an aged face.

Eragon tensed then, as if prepared to dive. The lizard scurried back two feet, and mirrored his stance. A moment later, the rider charged, and the lizard snapped out to bite him. Eragon dodged, jumping over it, and began punching it, his fists impacting soundly on its head. The lizard whipped around, dazed, but still managed to lay a great slash down Eragon's leg with its claws before his fists hit it once more and there was a _crack, _and it fell to the sand, silent.

Saphira touched his mind then. She had jumped from his shoulders as he had engaged the creature, and was now looking at it with curious eyes.

_It was old. Old and weakened, desperate. But it fought all the harder for it. ...This is what prey and predator are. You kill, so you can eat. This is what you must do for the rest of your life._

The dragoness was silent in thought then, and after a long moment she wandered over to gently lick Eragon's wound. He smiled, but told her not to worry.

_This was a predator, but in the end all become prey. Beware hunting a predator, for they are born with tools to kill, and will use them even if they are to be slain in the end._

She was silent again, but she still kept on licking at his wound. The blood flow was minor. It had been a long cut, almost a foot long, but quite shallow. Eragon would clean and mend it later.

A thought came through their link then, a _not _understanding. _Old, _she questioned, what was that?

_Old, _Eragon answered, _was when you had lived for a long long time, long enough to be at your end. _

She did not understand that in full, not yet, but then a panicked thought came through the link. What about him, would he not grow old? Would he not meet his end? The thought terrified her.

_No, I will not grow old. I shall not meet my end... and neither... will you... We will live forever, and I shall be there as long as you want me._

_Always_, her thoughts said.

Eragon said nothing, but pulled her into his arms again, and hugged her tight.

* * *

><p>The cool of the cave was very welcome. Saphira didn't entirely agree. Eragon, though, was tired and sweaty. She'd not relinquished the spot on his shoulder for two hours, and he'd also carried the monitor lizard back to the cave.<p>

Also, there were the dead plants he'd collected on the way. Most of the plants in the desert were surprisingly moist within, if not without. If one failed to get enough water, however, they would soon be as dry as grass in a drought, and were good for burning. It had been difficult to collect them, and Eragon suspected it would be something he could do rarely, as it had been hard enough just to get supplies for a single fire without traversing half of the desert, and there were no trees for leagues.

Still, this was their first real night here. Eragon planned to make it special.

The plants took to flame as easily as a tinderbox, roaring into life. He'd made a small hollow for them, small but deep, enough to stop them burning out quickly. Cooking the lizard proved difficult, and Eragon had to expend a spell- and a negligible amount of energy- to keep it in the right place.

Saphira eyed it curiously as it rotated, her mouth opening wider and wider as she drooled. It was... strangely cute. Eragon's own stomach gave its complaints, but he ignored it. Soon enough, he pulled the lizard from the fire and cut it open with one of the swords, and a rush of smell filled the cave.

The little dragon rushed forward as Eragon gestured, almost diving into the opening Eragon had made in its chest. He hadn't cooked it enough to go all the way through, and she disdained to cooked meat as she went for the organs. Eragon was content to eat the flesh. Soon enough, there was a great deal missing from the lizard, and both their stomachs were full to bursting. Eragon could not help but let out a contented sigh, happy to be eating properly again.

Night had fallen an hour ago, and cool air had begun to seep in, but the fire kept it at bay. Eragon rolled over to collect something he had gathered earlier- tiny nuggets of metal he had drawn from the earth.

He gestured for Saphira to approach, and she sluggishly got to her feet. He pulled her into his lap once she was in reach, and he lazily threw a nugget into the fire.

There was a rush of sparks, and suddenly the flame shifted to cherry-red. It lasted only a moment, but then Eragon collected another, copper this time, and the flames were streaked with green. It sparked greatly, and for several minutes Saphira's attention was rooted on it.

Eragon continued for some time, throwing in the pieces he had found, and the fire coloured most of the rainbow. Finally, he threw a final piece, and it became ocean-blue.

Saphira's eyes widened at this, and the cave was empty of voice or movement or thought for a long while, as they both stared entranced.

There was something soothing about a flame, Eragon mused. He rubbed the little dragoness's back absently, and he head swayed from side to side as she began humming.

It was a slow, melancholy tune, but soon rose to be hopeful. Her thoughts, strangely enough, did not reflect it. She just... sang.

An hour later, the fire flickered, on its last breaths. Saphira became silent then, and turned to face him. Eragon felt a tear run down his cheek, but he did not react. He just let it be.

The dragoness cocked her head at him, but he just smiled, smiled and drew her into his arms, where she nuzzled against his throat.

_My Saphira... don't grow up too fast._

She was silent for a moment, and then hummed once more.

* * *

><p>When Eragon woke the next morning, he found Saphira yet again snoring on his chest. Though considering he'd wrapped his arms around her, he didn't know who was to blame. Since she was genuinely asleep this time, he gently moved her onto the warm stone he'd been laying on, and stretched as he wandered to have breakfast.<p>

As he chewed on lizard meat- he was beginning to regret the lack of salt or spices- he contemplated what to do next. He didn't need to go anywhere, nor did he want to, he realised. The mountains were a perfect home for a dragon and rider, if they could look after themselves. Moving further into the mountains would be a good idea though, and there was something else they needed.

Eragon doubted that anyone would be able to find them here... but if they did... he needed to be able to protect them. He needed weapons... and maybe armor. The shoddy pieces of work would not hold up if Eragon encountered someone he could not defeat with magic alone. The last thing he needed was his sword shattering mid-fight. And besides, if he could have decent weapons, why not have great ones? There was no reason _not _to have enchanted tools, unless you were _Rhunon _and insisted on doing things the mundane way.

He felt something nudge his side, and he smiled as he realised that Saphira had woken and come to greet him. After a slight pat- she arched like at cat at his touch- the little dragoness began her own breakfast.

Returning his attention back to his dilemma, he came to a simple conclusion. To improve his equipment, he'd need a forge. He could do it with energy alone, but the expense would be ruinous. And he, quite simply, didn't have that much. He'd expend a fair amount just raising water for them each day. He could make a forge easy enough, though time consuming, but if he was going to make one, he'd better make it somewhere permanent. And so, when Saphira was done eating, Eragon put on his cloak once more, she climbed to his shoulder, and they began exploring the mountains.

* * *

><p>The day passed quickly. Eragon had to climb at several different spots to traverse them, and even if he'd tried he could not have reached the higher lofts- the majority of caves where dragons used to dwell. To preserve his energy, he'd taken a path that would leave him in the shadows of the mountains as the sun moved. It was a pleasant journey, though his aching muscles protested. Saphira, though small- she bit him again as he thought it- she was heavy.<p>

_That_ thought had her drawing blood. He hastily told her that she wasn't heavy, per se, but carrying her all day tired him out. She acquiesced at that, but made no move to leave his shoulders. Though, as he thought about it, he didn't really mind. He was becoming rapidly used to the familiar weight.

As the day passed, he explained more things to her. Her understanding was progressing rapidly, and there was a noticeable difference between even hours. She had begun commenting on little things- in her own way, that of sounds and images- which gave Eragon a stream of thought in which to divert his attention from the heat.

Then, as the sun was beginning to go down and Eragon was beginning to regret not going back sooner- finding his way in the dark would be quite difficult- Saphira suddenly raised her head, nostrils flaring, and chirped loudly.

Eragon touched her mind, but could not identify the scent either. Once, he had been able to perceive the details within touches and tastes and smells in... _her, _but that had been a thing only time could achieve.

Saphira thought it smelled like _water, _and several other things she did not know.

Curious, Eragon turned on his heel and began following the scent, using Saphira as a guide. She led him across a series of crags, and soon he got to a large cliff that hung over a wide crevasse. There was a path below it, but to get down he would have to climb down on an angle that surpassed vertical. He knew, from the start, he wouldn't be able to do that. So he reached for magic, and jumped.

Saphira squealed as they dropped, and her claws dug into him so tightly it felt like he had hit a mound of glass. The feeling almost broke his concentration, and he dropped faster for a moment before he got it under control, and they swooped to land on the path.

The effort had tired him, but he ignored it and turned his attention to the shivering dragoness. It was then he realised something he had noticed but not understood before.

Saphira was afraid of heights.

It seemed ludicrous, but it was there, hanging in her thoughts. Thinking back, he realised how many times the thought had come up. Even though she knew dragons could fly, she did not have that faith in herself. She could flutter her wings to slow her fall, but she felt everything else to be beyond her.

Drawing her into his arms, he stroked her spine until she relaxed. It was something he knew he must repair, but how he was not sure. He decided to keep holding her as he walked forward, as now he could even detect the scent himself. It was smelt light, like a river, and had a scent of freshness to it. How that could be so in the middle of the desert he was not sure though.

As he rounded a corner and under an archway of stone into a hidden chamber, he discovered the truth.

An _oasis! _It seemed impossible, but it was there. The cavern was almost like a tunnel, and had only one large entrance, though it was well hidden. Small gaps in the ceiling let beams of light illuminate a pool of water Eragon guessed to be one hundred feet wide, which was so deep Eragon could not see a bottom. Around it was an expanse of lush grass, growing against logic to the ring of sand that marked its edge.

A single depression over by a wall marked the spot where a dragon had once lay, and it set Eragon's thoughts scrambling.

What was this place? It defied all he knew of the mountains. If such a place existed, the dragons would not have had to leave Du fells Nangoroth in the first place! Unless... this place had been a secret, something most dragons did not know? Perhaps it had been made, or came into existence later? Perhaps both were true. Certainly, it bore marks of being made. Dragons were mighty diggers when they put their mind to it, able to tunnel even through stone with relative ease. It would have been easy enough to make the cavern, but how to force such a supply of water? An underground well could not have done this.

...Eragon sighed, perhaps he needn't over-think it. However it had happened, it was there now. A dragon had obviously taken advantage of it, and had crafted small fissures in the stone above which light could breach. There was enough to allow the growth of plants, mostly grass, but not enough to dry out the place.

He wandered up to the pool and Saphira fluttered out of his arms, forgetting the incident earlier for now. She looked at Eragon curiously as he went to his knees and smelt the pool. It still smelt fresh, and the water was crystal clear. He muttered a spell, and surely enough, it was free of contaminants.

...This place was perfect. Perhaps his luck was turning around after all.

Gesturing to Saphira, she chirped happily and dived into the shallow edges of the pool, splashing about with great enthusiasm. Eragon grinned and took a drink, appreciating the taste. Water drawn up from the ground was rather stale, and he was happy to be returning to something normal.

"Welcome to our new home Saphira. What do you think?"

Her reply was to splash him.

* * *

><p>After a few nights to recover, skipping sleep became incredibly easy. It was also the first time he was parted from Saphira since she had been born however, so he doubted his ability to rest in the first place. She was no better.<p>

Once he'd spent the better part of an hour assuring her he'd be right back, and that she should not under any circumstances leave the cave, he took the path back to their first one. He would have taken her with him, but with her currently unable to fly, she'd be one weight too many.

It mattered little anyway. He kept a closer watch on her with his mind than he ever could with his eyes.

Soon, he found himself back. After a tearful reunion on Saphira's part- which surprised him a great deal- they shared a cold dinner. Lizard, fortunately, kept rather well, and he then found himself rocking the tiny dragon in his arms, his back to the wall of the cave and warm sand beneath his toes. The cave itself seemed to keep cool in the day and warm at night. How, Eragon could only guess. He'd caught a view of the stars through a hold in the roof, and it was that which he and Saphira found themselves staring.

_Gods... had it really only been a week? _

He felt her poke his mind, her touch loose and languid. She presented him with an image of himself, tiredly distorted, and a burning curiosity. She was wondering what he was thinking.

Eragon smiled and scratched behind her chin. _Nothing. _She seemed to disagree, and again she poked him. Instead of replying, Eragon drew her mind into a fanciful stream of illusions. As expected, she latched onto them quickly, and he flitted between images of open fields and great cities and mighty beasts who obeyed no logic but what he gave them. Soon, his mind turned, almost by itself, and Eragon told her stories, stories he himself had been told, so long ago.

Garrow, if nothing else, had been a devoted father. Though he could be harshly realistic at times, the tales he had told Roran and Eragon in their youth had been worthy of a storyteller. It had been part of the reason Eragon had found Brom's company so appealing in later years... it was a return to happier times.

...He was barely a third of the way through the tale when Saphira's consciousness slipped, and she entered the world of dreams.

_...It really had been a week. Less, even. _Eragon stroked the dragoness's wings tenderly, and she quivered, though she did not wake. He wondered, for a moment, if this was what it was like to be a father. He smiled then, and carefully made a hollow her in the sand, which was where he placed her. She moved, he sleep disturbed, but he stoked her for a long moment, and she fell silent.

_A week since she had come to him. Two months since the egg was taken. Four since he had returned._

Merely the last week felt like forever. The last few days were particularly guilty. And now, as he sat down in the grass waiting for the pangs of sleep, they would not come.

He stared into the distance, and his mind wandered. Memories rose up, memories of happy times.

_Happy times, that all ended. _

...Why could he not forget that? Why could he never escape it? He knew he must, for that time was now. He was safe. They were safe. And he would keep it that way. That was all they needed.

Eragon dug into his own mind then, and slowly, surely, he began burying memories. Deep, behind a wall that only he could find. Good times, bad times, all were locked away.

If he was to make a new future, he must put his past behind him.

Besides, he didn't want Saphira to share in his nightmares.

It was at that moment that he knew sleep would not come that night. So, Eragon instead sat in the grass, his attention on the world around him as he dug into his magic, and lost himself within it.

* * *

><p>Sunlight had been streaming into the cave for hours when Eragon broke from his trance, though it was not the sun that did it. He felt pressure at his side, and he felt Saphira climb to his shoulder so she could better see what he was doing.<p>

_Good morning, little one._

She nuzzled him in greeting, and Eragon presented his night's work. In front on him lay several pebbles of metal, coloured like tarnished silver. In his hands lay a somewhat larger piece, which was closer akin to rusted iron.

Eragon put a finger to his lips as he turned to face her, and after a moment he dug for his magic once more.

"Moi."

The iron almost seemed to writhe in his hands, its form growing hot and seeming to fold in on itself. An acrid smell like the tang of ozone filled the air. Suddenly, a sliver of tarnished silver split the iron, growing wider and wider as the lump shrunk.

Eragon tossed the new pebble of tarnished silver into the air, and caught it again, grinning. He felt a heavy exhaustion pass through him, and he felt rather hungry, like he hadn't eaten. The first passed after a moment, but the second did not. Reaching for his magic again, he muttered another word, and the smell cleared.

He felt a slight push against his mind, and Eragon patted Saphira as he explained.

"That was iron. Rusted though, that's why it smelt so badly. And this-" Eragon tossed the pebble once more. "-is something the elves call brightsteel."

"It's a very rare ore, and I'm only aware of one cache of it left in existence. However, I've made a habit of breaking certain rules. You can... well, if you had magic, though in all honesty when you _do, _you'll be able to outdo anything I am capable of..." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm digressing. You can, if you know how, turn something into another thing. For example, you could turn sand into water. It's difficult, and very draining, but here is where the trick comes in. One can save energy by preserving it. If you know how, you can expend a little energy to stop a lot from escaping. I admit, I don't know all the words to perform it in full, but one can make do without if one is skilled enough. When something turns into something else, there is a lot of ambient energy released. If one harnesses it, you can keep the transformation going."

Saphira tilted her head to the side.

"I apologise, you probably don't understand a word of that." Eragon laughed. "Anyway, it's still quite draining, but this is my night's work." He gestured to the pile of pebbles about the size of two of his fingers. It wasn't much, in all realism. The lump he had given Rhunon had been nearly a several hundred times the size.

"It's probably a good time for you to get up too... I didn't want to leave you, and I'm running out of iron to find nearby. These mountains would have been a horrible place to build a mine."

And with that, Eragon abandoned his work, and they both went to have breakfast.

* * *

><p>Saphira looked over the edge of the cliff warily, and her grip on Eragon's neck tightened. To save himself from choking, it was all he could do to pull her into his arms. She huddled there, frightened.<p>

She did not relax until they were back in the oasis-cave.

_You're meant to fly... why are you afraid of it?_

The dragon shuddered. Once again, he traced the thought, but there was no explanation he could find.

_Come on, we've got to teach you. Like it or not... you need to know how. I can't always hunt for you._

She squealed and bolted from his reach. Once she was twenty feet away, she looked back, her eyes thin. Eragon sighed and walked over, but she ran away just as quickly.

_I could chase you around the cave all day you know. Chances are I could catch you too._

Saphira stared at him, as if accepting that challenge, but Eragon just shrugged.

_However, you forget something. I have magic. _

Her eyes widened, and Eragon barked "Risa!"

A great plume of air rose beneath the dragoness, pulling her upwards. She floundered, rolling in his grasp as she rose towards the ceiling. Her wings fluttered madly, though out of tandem, and she could not get her balance. At she reached the ceiling, the force suddenly stopped, and she fell from the sky. Just before she hit the ground, Eragon caught her and pulled her into his arms.

Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she trembled violently.

_Don't be afraid... _He stroked the length of her body, and she shivered, though she did not relax. After a moment, Eragon lifted her up and slowly pressed his lips to her forehead.

She froze.

_You forgot something else. You don't need to be afraid... because I'll catch you. Whenever you fall, I'll be there._

They remained there for several minutes, aware only of their breaths on each-other. Finally, Eragon pulled away, and looked into her eyes. _Worrying is my job... now, would you like to try again?_

Her blue eyes were uncertain, but she turned all the same, her wings spread wide.

"Fly, Saphira!" He launched her from his arms. She soared high, and flapped with all her strength. Surely enough she began falling, though it was slower this time. Just before she hit the grass a cushion of air caught her, and she once again came into Eragon's arms.

_Progress would be slow it seemed. But that was okay._

"Ready to go again?"

Saphira chirped eagerly.

_We have all the time in the world._


	12. Where the heart is: Part II

First off, I'm sorry it's taken so long to post the last few chapters. I'm running a week behind on each, and for that I apologise.

Secondly, wow, last book out today! Well, technically yesterday, 'cause it's 2am for me right now. I don't have it yet, my day is sending it to me... from another state... after it gets forwarded from his old address... umm... so it may be a week or more before I can start reading, and I'd appreciate it if people didn't spoil anything. I'll say in the author's notes when I've read it (expect me to be a few days late on that posting too... haha). As for you guys, hope you enjoy reading hopefully awesome book four.

Thirdly, I wasn't sure how I've done on this chapter... I think good. It's a little shorter than norm... but perhaps the quality is worth it? I admit, I've had to alter my original plan a little to make the chapter flow, and even then it's gotten jarred a bit cause of things that need to happen. ...Suppose it wouldn't be a drama if things went straight then though, would it? Heh.

Enjoy people.

* * *

><p>Sleep had come easily that night. The constant use of magic through the day sapped at his energy. He'd fallen asleep with Saphira by his side, like a hawk at vigil.<p>

Missing a night only seemed to make his dreams more vivid.

_It felt as if a hand was on his back as he stepped through the ash. He knew the feeling would strengthen if he stopped walking, just as he knew it would __**hurt **__if he turned. And so, he did not, not today._

_Gil'ead was his limit now. He could not stray any closer without pain. It had been Dras-Leona only two months ago, and already he was being hedged further._

_In a month, Teirm. In three, he wouldn't even be able to set foot in Carvahall anymore. In six... Ellesmera... and the entirety of the Hadarac Desert. A year? What... half of Alagaesia?_

_And even here, he could barely think anymore._

_...It didn't matter, he decided. He'd long since emptied Gil'ead of its secrets, and he had no desire to visit. He didn't want the worship... and especially not the blame._

_The latter was more common. ...What could he have done? How could he have known? Galbatorix had been evil, yes. But who would have thought he'd be so __**petty.**_

_And they blamed him. Blamed him for the hunger, for the darkness, for the cold. And then, the final straw, they blamed him for the loss._

_The last he could take, accept even. He'd known that he'd have to kill in the war. Deaths were on his hands in the thousands. Did they think he liked it any more than they did?_

_Eragon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Better he get on his way. He wouldn't want the guards to recognise him... that would just raise new issues._

_So, he turned and marched east, towards a sun that didn't shine anymore._

* * *

><p>Waking was rarely as pleasant as that morning. Escaping his dreams, alone, was enough for that.<p>

Eragon's chest felt strangely light as he woke. After a moment, he realised it was because Saphira wasn't asleep there for once.

Shaking his head, he looked around. He could feel her presence, close, but he couldn't see her.

_Where was she?_

Suddenly, a shadow covered him, and he fell to the floor as a something hit his shoulders. He spun as he fell, landing on his back.

Once again on his chest, Saphira grinned. There were dark lines under her eyes, but she flared her wings and suddenly leapt into the air. Her wingbeats were clumsy... weary... but she shot across the cave.

_Had she been up all night? _Eragon mused. _All night... practicing..._

Regardless, Eragon laughed and cheered for minutes, until she landed smoothly in his arms and curled up, exhausted.

The rest of the day blurred together. After moving himself to the warmth of sunlight, Eragon let Saphira sleep in his lap until dusk. He spent his time collecting and transmuting pieces of brightsteel.

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. Saphira, once she had learnt a little, took to the sky with such an enthusiasm Eragon found it hard to not smile. Indeed, it soon became hard to get her to land at all. Her body, once soft and rounded, became sleek, and every one of her movements spoke of their strength.

But Eragon was worried. At two weeks old, she barely looked older than a few days. She was, frankly put, quite small. Eragon fed her until she was full each day, but it didn't seem to matter. The little dragon would not grow any faster.

...Nor would she speak. She understood every word he told her, but never did she reply in kind. Once, he had queried her about it, but she had not given an answer, not even in her own way.

Saphira, it seemed, enjoyed mystifying him.

* * *

><p>At a month old, Saphira was three feet long. Half of that was her tail, which was currently wrapped around his neck, just light enough not to choke. She'd taken her spot on his shoulders, which seemed to the only place she ever deigned to land, expect if it was in his arms. Eragon had become thankful of two things. The strip of leather he had secured to his shoulders, and Saphira's growing flight expertise.<p>

Even if she didn't speak, their _talks _got longer and more descriptive, as she shared her views on the ground, the sky, him, plants, their food... and well, everything. Her personality was delightfully mysterious. Some days she almost seemed to writhe with energy, others she would become quiet and subdued, staring into the sunlit distance for hours on end. Even with his knowledge of her thoughts, her moods were unpredictable, and Eragon found he didn't mind at all.

Every day they roamed, sometimes leagues from their home. Mostly it was for food; Saphira had taken to hunting like she had taken to flying, with great skill. Eragon survived half on meat and half of the desert plants he collected for their nourishing roots. The other reason for their explorations was no reason at all... not really. Eragon would walk the dry lands and Saphira would fly above, so high she was barely a dot in the sky, and she would revel in the flight and the warmth and Eragon... in a hidden corner of his mind, would remember the past, and smile.

Scrying attempts come and went as the days passed. In Eragon's mind, they became part of the scenery, just things that happened, no more. At the end of each day, they would make their way back, the moon having risen by the time they took the last steps. Most nights he would turn his attention to his growing pile of metal. At five weeks, he was sure he had enough, and then spent two days creating a forge in the corner of the cave.

It was about this time, as he automatically began collecting strange materials for his creation, he realised something.

He knew how to make swords.

The words did not do it justice. He _knew _how to make swords. And armor. And a thousand other little things that a blacksmith would know. More than Horst knew. More than any mortal man or dwarf did.

What Rhunon and he had done in their creation of Brisingr apparently had... unexpected... side effects.

The project took four days. Eragon used the exact same methods Rhunon had, delayed part due to his sheer supply of magic- Saphira's flame had sped the process greatly- and his inexperience with, ironically enough, his new skills. Saphira spent most of the time looking over his shoulder, questioning this and that. She was the most curious on the nature of the hot coals, and Eragon spent a whole hour explaining how things burnt. After that, she looked at the fire with new respect. Occasionally she snuck closer and basked in the heat, and he had to remind her not to let herself get too warm.

When, finally, he dropped the blade into a makeshift tub of water, Eragon let out a tired sigh. The day following he scrubbed and polished the blade, and made a hilt. He hid the final result from Saphira, even in his mind, and she constantly tried to divert his attention enough to get a good look.

On the morning of the next day, he unveiled it.

It was identical to the sword he had once known. The hilt felt the same, and he swung it a few times for good measure. The hued lines rippled in the same way, the same pattern.

Saphira was astonished. She prodded it with her nose first, then remarked on the pretty colour. She took Eragon on his word about the sharpness. She tried scratching it with her claws out of curiosity, and was even a little dismayed when they didn't leave a mark. She licked the gem in the pommel, once again appreciating the colour. Finally, she gave it a long sniff, but said nothing, and her thoughts slipped his grasp.

Just as she was about to walk away, Eragon drew her attention back. He held the blade high, then in commanding tones exclaimed "Brisingr!"

Nothing happened.

Saphira gave him an amused look, and wandered over to the pool to have a swim. Eragon paused then, staring at the frozen tongues of flame that rippled across the sword.

_What had happened? He'd crafted it in the same way, and it had come out the same... what was missing?_

Understanding escaped him, and once again, Eragon felt like he had lost an old friend.

* * *

><p>It was only late spring now, and the desert was already unbearably hot. Each day his cloak was drenched in sweat, then boiled dry. It was only his growing magical strength that allowed him to get enough water to make trips out.<p>

Saphira, by comparison, had never been happier. She loved the warmth, loved the fact that her wingspan now eclipsed that of the desert scavengers, and especially loved the fact that despite his discomfort, he accompanied her anyway.

She'd taken to hunting the hunters, something that Eragon was wary about, but she proved herself the better flyer... and fighter, every time. In the end, he came to appreciate it. He and Saphira upset the balance with their presence, restricting the food supply. The few falcons she had brought down helped.

Still, no matter how she denied it, she was still small. The road led to disaster.

The day had been like any other. The sun bore down on him harder than he could ever remember. His footsteps felt heavy, and his boots almost sloshed with sweat. To top it all off, he was dragging a heavy lizard behind him, the catch of the week. Still, his mood ran high, if only because Saphira's did. He looked to the ground, observing twisting shadows at his feet. The young dragoness had been attempting to cover him with a constant shade, but it had been more difficult than she expected. She just moved too fast to maintain it. Still, she tried, and had reasonable success by gaining altitude at an angle.

Eragon's eyes drooped shut as he walked. He felt no need to keep them open, as the desert offered nothing to trip upon anyway. He let his mind rest as his body toiled, only vaguely aware Saphira's attention being diverted to chase another predator.

Then, a great screech split the air, and his eyes flashed to the sky. Saphira had begun hunting an _eagle. _It was out of place, Eragon had no idea what it was doing in the desert. They were stronger, faster, and a lot _bigger _than what his dragoness was used to. He called out with his mind, but he was not fast enough. She came up behind the eagle, and just as quickly as she would do, it spun in the air and raked her with its talons.

Eragon screamed as she fell from the sky, her wings and chest bleeding. He felt her fear, then terror as the eagle proceeded to dive after her.

Rage clouded Eragon's vision, and his hands curled into claws as he raised them to the sky.

"_Thrysta!" _Eragon bellowed, his hands tightening into fists.

The eagle faltered, its wings suddenly compacted against its sides. Its legs snapped, and there was a spurt of blood as its chest imploded.

Just as quickly, Eragon's hands sprung open, palms to the sky.

"_Kodthr!"_

Saphira's falling abruptly slowed, and Eragon abandoned his burden as he raced forward to meet her.

She shuddered on the sand as he approached. There was a deep furrow across her belly, and her right wing had been torn up to the bone. Both wounds bled slowly, the pace beginning to quicken as her breath sped.

_Stay still. _He urged, and he again reached for his magic. _"Waise... heill."_

He closed his eyes as he remembered all he knew of dragon anatomy. Trying his best to relax, to focus, he muttered a poem from the days he had spent as a healer, and his emotions slipped away. He touched her chest, which was slick with blood, and reached into her body with his magic. _Superficial... mostly. Secondary flight muscle damaged... priority. _He healed them first, sealing up the arteries flowing into them. Using his other hand, he pressed the two sides of flesh together, and with a brush of thought, sealed the gap. Saphira squealed in pain, her mind pressing against his, looking for comfort. He pressed against her mind in return, and he forced a soothing state upon her. She relaxed for a moment longer as her mind was lost to confusion, the pain deadened.

Eragon shook his head slightly, and grasped her wing. The soft flesh was rapidly loosing colour, and Eragon felt a stab of agony run through their link as he grabbed both sides of wing to pull them taught. Muttering another spell, he wing flared, and he pulled the skin together, where both sides connected seamlessly.

He examined his work for a moment, and his vision span. He realised how much energy he had expended, and a great ravenous hunger ran through him. His knees buckled, and chaos returned to his head as he stumbled to his rear.

Saphira panted, but she was whole. The blood on their bodies was the only proof it had ever happened. She raised her wing slowly, but she felt no pain. Still, her eyes were wide, and the horror of what had happened began to come into realisation.

"_I told you to be careful."_

The little dragoness shuddered, and she averted her eyes. Her head was low, but she prodded him slowly, her thoughts begging for comfort.

Eragon ran a hand down her spine, and then, reaching around, pulled her against his chest. She shook, and let out a single hiccup. He was then witness to something he had never seen before.

A string of tears ran down Saphira's cheeks, each like a little crystal, tinged with blue.

_Sorry._

Eragon's eyes widened.

_I'm sorry... won't... do it again. Sorry._

Eragon ran a hand across her wings, across the new flesh, and he felt something cold run down her spine. She shuddered again, her tears spilling into his lap. He paused then, and softly, but firmly, pressed his lips to her forehead.

_It's okay... you're young, you get to make mistakes. That's what old people like me are for, to make sure you're okay._

There were no thoughts for a long time then, as he held her close and she cried and cried. After nearly an hour, she worked up the strength to say something else.

_...Safe with Eragon._

_Always._

She shivered one last time then, and went still.

_Don't let go?_

Eragon smiled softly.

_Not today... my little one._

* * *

><p><em>Uru'baen was a majestic as it was horrible. Eragon remembered the fairths he had seen of it, of its original grandeur in the age of the elves. Of later, in the time of man... even the day before Galbatorix's arrival.<em>

_What was there now resembled none of those. The city was black, as if burnt, made of stone and mortar built high. Practical, purely. When he took a closer look, it seemed not even that at times. _

_It looked like a city built on nightmares, and the walls had twisted to reflect it._

"_Horrifying, isn't it?"_

_Eragon's head darted to the side. He'd never expected Arya to say something so... blatant... but the elf just stared into the distance, her eyes filled with sorrow._

"_It is indeed." Eragon muttered. "I imagine it's worse for your kin, the ones who have seen what it once was."_

_Arya shuddered. "You're probably right."_

_Eragon turned, his attention fully on her now. "What's wrong? You aren't yourself."_

"_Am I, Eragon?" She sat down then, and like she had once before, drew her knees against her chin. Her hair splayed about in a dark halo, obscuring her features. "I've begun to wonder... I... I know how the elves feel. It leaks into their thoughts, their words, their very movements... and yet..." She shook her head. "I... don't. I don't feel it like they do. They are not a reflection of me, nor I of them. There is only one who acts as I do... and I..." _

_Arya looked at him, desperation in her eyes. Silently, he crouched behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. They stayed there for a long time then._

_Eventually, her muscles relaxed._

"_**What have you done?"**__ Her voice was hoarse then, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She turned to stare at him, and suddenly her face was black, trimmed with ash. Her hair covered her like shadows which surrounded her glowing eyes._

"_**BEGONE!"**_

* * *

><p>Eragon jerked awake, his muscles twitching and his blood pumping. He forced himself not to stand, and slowly moved a sleeping Saphira from his chest to his lap.<p>

_Arya... _Had he really buried everything that much?

_Yes, _he concluded, _he had. _He put away all of the painful memories, hidden them under the folds of his mind to be forgotten.

But he couldn't ignore the past. Not forever, not anymore. The world would move along with or without him.

...And whether they knew it or not, he still had friends. If there was to be any hope for him, of being worthy of this new chance, of _Saphira _and the gifts he had been given, he had to prove it now.

Somewhere... far away, Arya would still be being tortured.

If for only one day more, Alagaesia would have a dragon rider by its side.


End file.
